^V 


MON  ALDI. 


\1  0  N  A  L  D  I 


TALE. 


Who  knows  himself  must  needs  in  prophecy 
Too  oft  behold  his  own  most  sad  reverse. 


BOSTON: 

CHARLES  C.  LITTLE  AND  JAMES  BROWN. 


MDCCCXLI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1841,  by 

WASHINGTON  ALLSTON, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


BOSTON: 

PRINTED    BY   FREEMAN    AND    BOI.LES, 
WASHINGTON    STREET. 


NOTE. 

This  little  story  was  ready  for  the  press  as  long  ago 
as  1822,  but  having  been  written  for  the  periodical  of 
a  friend,  which  was  soon  after  discontinued,  the  man- 
uscript was  thrown  into  the  author's  desk,  where  it  has 
lain  till  the  present  time.  It  is  now  published  —  not 
with  the  pretensions  of  a  Novel,  but  simply  as  a  Tale. 

VV.  A. 

AUGUST,  1841. 


INTRODUCTION. 

of  those  mental  illusions  which  the  resemblance 
between  past  and  present  objects  is  wont  to  call 
forth.  Italy  seemed  for  the  time  forgotten  ;  I  was 
journeying  homeward,  and  a  vision  of  beaming, 
affectionate  faces  passed  before  me  ;  I  crossed  the 
threshold,  and  heard  —  oh,  how  touching  is  that 
soundless  voice  of  welcoming  in  a  day-dream  of 
home  —  I  heard  the  joyful  cry  of  recognition,  and 
a  painful  fulness  in  my  throat  made  me  struggle 
for  words  —  when,  at  a  sudden  turn  in  the  road, 
my  carriage  was  brought  to  the  ground. 

Fortunately  I  received  no  injury  in  the  fall ;  but 
my  spell  of  happiness  was  broken,  and  I  felt  again 
that  I  was  in  Italy.  On  recovering  my  legs,  I 
called  to  the  postilion  to  help  me  right  the  carriage. 
He  crossed  himself  very  devoutly,  and  said  it  was 
impossible  without  other  assistance ;  and  how  to 
get  that  he  knew  not,  as  we  were  several  miles 
from  any  habitation.  The  vettura  was  light,  and 
I  thought  we  could  manage  it  ourselves;  but  I 
remonstrated  in  vain.  He  said  it  could  not  be 
done  ;  and  quietly  seating  himself  on  a  stone,  began 
striking  a  light  for  his  pipe.  This  movement 
seemed  suspicious.  Though  Italy  at  that  time 
was  but  little  infested  with  banditti,  the  armies  of 
the  revolution  having  drained  off  the  worst  of  her 
population,  I  yet  could  not  quite  free"  my  mind 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

from  apprehension.  "  We  must  wait,"  said  the 
postilion,  "till  some  traveller  passes."  At  that 
moment  I  heard  a  shrill  whistle  from  the  glen  be- 
low. This  was  no  time  for  parleying  ;  so,  snatch- 
ing up  my  portmanteau,  I  cocked  my  pistols,  and 
bade  the  postilion  go  on  before  me  at  his  peril.  I 
then  followed  him  with  all  speed.  As  we  passed 
an  angle  of  the  road,  I  thought  he  made  an  at- 
tempt to  slip  aside  down  a  narrow  defile  to  the 
left,  whence  I  distinctly  heard  another  whistle,  as 
in  answer  to  the  first.  This  satisfied  me  of  his 
treachery,  and,  pointing  to  my  pistol,  "  the  instant 
I  am  attacked,"  said  I,  "  you  are  a  dead  man  ;  so, 
if  you  value  your  life,  take  the  first  path  that  leads 
to  a  house." 

The  tone  in  which  I  uttered  this  threat  had  the 
desired  effect.  He  quickened  his  pace,  and  in  a 
few  minutes,  cautiously  whispering  "  to  the  right," 
he  led  the  way  into  a  narrow  sheep-track,  winding 
up  the  side  of  the  mountain.  Though  swift  of 
foot,  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to  keep  up  with 
him,  fear  seeming  to  have  lent  him  wings.  And 
though  the  path  was  often  obstructed  by  loose 
stones  and  brambles,  we  continued  to  ascend  at 
the  same  pace,  as  I  should  guess,  for  near  half  an 
hour,  when  we  entered  upon  a  small  plain,  or 
mountain  heath.  The  moon  was  just  up,  and  I 


10  INTRODUCTION. 

thought  I  could  discern  something  like  a  human 
dwelling.  I  asked  what  it  was.  "  For  the  love 
of  heaven,  go  not  near  it,"  said  the  postilion  ;  "  't  is 
the  house  of  the  mad."  —  Suspecting  him  of  some 
artifice,  I  presented  my  pistol  and  bade  him  go  on. 
Twice  he  stopped  and  attempted  to  speak,  but  his 
teeth  chattered  so  with  fear  that  he  could  not  arti- 
culate. Finding  me,  however,  determined,  he  pro- 
ceeded ;  but  we  had  scarcely  reached  the  spot, 
when,  uttering  a  cry  of  terror,  he  gave  a  sudden 
spring  back,  and  darted  by  me  like  an  arrow.  I 
looked  behind  me,  but  he  was  out  of  sight.  I  then 
turned  towards  the  building,  when  I,  too,  involun- 
tarily drew  back  :  it  was  indeed  no  other  than  the 
unhappy  object  of  the  postilion's  panic. 

He  was  sitting  on  a  stone,  in  a  little  spot  of 
moonshine,  before  the  door  of  his  hovel,  so  that  I 
had  a  full  view  of  his  figure,  except  the  legs,  which 
appeared  to  be  half  buried  in  a  hole,  worn  into  the 
earth  by  long  and  continued  treading.  But  there 
was  no  motion  now  in  his  feet,  nor  in  any  part  of 
him ;  he  was  fixed,  like  the  stone  he  sat  on ;  his 
eyes  riveted  as  if  on  some  object  before  him.  — 
Such  eyes  !  I  shall  never  forget  them  ;  they  were 
neither  fierce  nor  fiery,  but  white  and  shining,  like 
the  eyes  of  a  dead  man,  with  their  last  expression 
fixed  upon  them.  Of  the  rest  of  his  face  I  have 


INTRODUCTION.  1 1 

only  a  general  impression  that  it  was  pale,  and  his 
beard  black  and  bushy  ;  for  I  seemed  then  only  to 
see  his  eyes,  in  their  ghastly  whiteness ;  and  even 
now  while  I  write,  I  shudder  at  the  recollection  of 
their  passive,  enduring  look  of  misery. 

There  is  a  fascination  in  fearful  objects  so  strong 
with  some  as  oftentimes  to  counteract  the  will.  I 
would  have  passed  on,  but  something  seemed  to 
fasten  me,  as  it  were,  to  the  spot,  and  I  stood  be- 
fore him  like  one  statue  gazing  upon  another. 
Neither  could  I  speak ;  not  that  I  was  checked  by 
anything  like  fear  ;  it  was  rather  by  the  sad  convic- 
tion that  all  intercourse  was  hopeless.  I  felt  that 
I  could  touch  no  chord  of  a  mind  so  fearfully  un- 
strung, and  that  words  would  but  fall  upon  his 
brain  like  drops  of  water  upon  marble. 

Happily  I  was  soon  relieved  of  this  painful  con- 
straint by  the  approach  of  an  old  woman,  who,  as 
I  afterwards  learnt,  was  an  inhabitant  of  the  dwell- 
ing. The  sound  of  her  voice  seemed  to  have  an 
instant  effect  on  the  unhappy  being ;  he  started  as 
from  a  trance,  and  giving  me  a  hurried  look,  as  if 
perceiving  me  for  the  first  time,  darted  into  the 
cottage.  I  would  gladly  have  staid  to  satisfy  my 
curiosity  with  some  particulars  of  his  history,  but 
the  old  woman,  who  spoke  only  a  barbarous  pro- 
vincial dialect,  was  quite  unintelligible  ;  I  under- 


12  INTRODUCTION. 

stood  enough  of  it,  however,  to  obtain  from  her  a 
direction  to  the  nearest  convent,  which  to  my  great 
comfort  I  found  was  within  a  short  distance. 

Following  her  direction,  I  soon  reached  the  con- 
vent, where  my  reception  was  so  courteous  as  soon 
to  drive  from  my  mind  the  vexatious  cause  of  my 
intrusion,  the  superior  himself  coming  forward  to 
do  the  honors  of  his  house,  and  conducting  me  to 
the  refectory.  The  monks,  who  had  just  sat  down 
to  supper,  rose  as  I  entered,  and  respectfully  in- 
vited me  to  the  table.  I  believe  I  did  ample  jus- 
tice to  their  hospitality  ;  for  a  sense  of  present 
security  added  to  my  late  exercise  had  given  unu- 
sual keenness  to  my  appetite.  The  good  fathers 
seemed  to  take  a  pleasure  in  seeing  me  eat,  and  I 
thanked  them  in  my  heart. 

The  gratuitous  kindness  of  a  stranger  will  often 
touch  us  more  sensibly  for  the  moment  than  the 
welcome  even  of  a  friend  ;  it  seems  to  give  a  wider 
play  to  our  good  feelings,  to  generalize  as  it  were 
our  affections,  and  make  us  ashamed  of  all  narrow 
or  exclusive  likings.  It  was  quickly  perceived  that 
I  had  a  proper  sense  of  the  courtesy  of  my  enter- 
tainers, and  all  my  reserve  was  soon  banished.  I 
felt  as  if  I  was  amongst  friends.  But  I  was  more 
particularly  attracted  by  the  prior.  He  was  a  ven- 
erable old  man,  apparently  above  sixty  ;  of  a  com- 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

manding  and  even  lofty  presence,  yet  tempered  by 
benignity  ;  but  the  cast  of  his  countenance  seemed 
inclining  to  melancholy  ;  perhaps  this  might  have 
been  owing  to  the  expression  of  his  eyes,  which 
had  somewhat  of  an  inward  look,  as  if  he  had  been 
used  to  dwell  rather  on  past  images  in  the  memory 
than  on  those  about  him.  As  I  looked  on  his  face 
I  could  not  help  thinking  there  had  once  been  a 
time  when  his  interest  in  the  world  was  as  strong 
as  mine  ;  when  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  that  make 
up  the  tide  of  passion,  had  their  ebbs  and  flows 
about  his  heart.  These  thoughts  seemed  to  force 
my  respect,  and  I  forgot,  as  I  listened  to  him,  all 
my  prejudices  against  monks  and  monasteries.  It 
is  not  easy  for  one  to  inspire  esteem  without  per- 
ceiving it ;  the  worthy  father  was  not  wanting  in 
tact,  and  we  became  as  sociable  before  the  even- 
ing closed  as  if  we  had  known  each  other  for 
years. 

Having  expressed  a  wish  to  see  the  curiosities 
of  the  place,  the  good  prior  the  next  morning 
offered  his  services  as  my  cicerone.  As  I  followed 
him  to  the  chapel,  he  observed,  that  his  convent 
had  little  to  gratify  the  taste  of  an  ordinary  travel- 
ler ;  "  but  if  you  are  a  connoisseur,"  he  added, 
"  you  will  find  few  places  better  worth  visiting.  I 
perceive  you  think  the  picture  opposite  hardly 
2 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

bears  me  out  in  this  assertion.  I  agree  with  you. 
It  is  certainly  very  insipid,  and  the  mass  of  our 
collection  is  little  better ;  but  we  have  one  that 
redeems  them  all  —  one  picture  worth  twenty 
common  galleries."  As  he  said  this,  we  stopped 
before  a  crucifixion  by  Lanfranco.  Next  to  his 
great  work  at  St.  Andrea  della  Valle,  it  was  the 
best  I  had  seen  of  that  master.  Though  eccentric 
and  somewhat  capricious,  it  was  yet  full  of  power- 
ful expression,  and  marked  by  a  vigor  of  execution 
that  made  every  thing  around  it  look  like  washed 
drawings.  "  Yes,"  said  I,  supposing  this  the  pic- 
ture alluded  to,  "  and  I  can  now  agree  with  you, 
't  is  worth  a  thousand  of  the  flimsy  productions  of 
the  last  age."  "  True,"  answered  the  prior  ;  "  but 

I  did  not  allude  " Here  he  was  called  out  on 

business  of  the  convent. 

After  waiting  some  time  for  my  conductor's  re- 
turn, and  finding  little  worth  looking  at  besides 
the  Lan  franc,  I  turned  to  leave  the  chapel  by  the 
way  I  had  entered  ;  but,  taking  a  wrong  door,  I 
came  into  a  dark  passage,  leading,  as  I  supposed, 
to  an  inner  court.  This  being  my  first  visit  to  a 
convent,  a  natural  curiosity  tempted  me  to  pro- 
ceed, when,  instead  of  a  court,  I  found  myself  in 
a  large  apartment.  The  light  (which  descended 
from  above)  was  so  powerful,  that  for  nearly  a 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

minute  I  could  distinguish  nothing,  and  I  rested 
on  a  form  attached  to  the  wainscoating.  I  then 
put  up  my  hand  to  shade  my  eyes,  when  —  the 
fearful  vision  is  even  now  before  me  —  I  seemed 
to  be  standing  before  an  abyss  in  space,  boundless 
and  black.  In  the  midst  of  this  permeable  pitch 
stood  a  colossal  mass  of  gold,  in  shape  like  an  altar, 
and  girdled  about  by  a  huge  serpent,  gorgeous 
and  terrible  ;  his  body  flecked  with  diamonds,  and 
his  head,  an  enormous  carbuncle,  floating  like  a 
meteor  on  the  air  above.  Such  was  the  Throne. 
But  no  words  can  describe  the  gigantic  Being  that 
sat  thereon  —  the  grace,  the  majesty,  its  transcend- 
ant  form ;  and  yet  I  shuddered  as  I  looked,  for  its 
superhuman  countenance  seemed,  as  it  were,  to 
radiate  falsehood  ;  every  feature  was  in  contradic- 
tion —  the  eye,  the  mouth,  even  to  the  nostril  — 
whilst  the  expression  of  the  whole  was  of  that  un- 
natural softness  which  can  only  be  conceived  of 
malignant  blandishment.  It  was  the  appalling! 
beauty  of  the  King  of  Hell.  The  frightful  discord 
vibrated  through  my  whole  frame,  and  I  turned 
for  relief  to  the  figure  below  ;  for  at  his  feet  knelt 
one  who  appeared  to  belong  to  our  race  of  earth. 
But  I  had  turned  from  the  first  only  to  witness  in 
this  second  object  its  withering  fascination.  It 
was  a  man  apparently  in  the  prime  of  life,  but  pale 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

and  emaciated,  as  if  prematurely  wasted  by  his 
unholy  devotion,  yet  still  devoted  —  with  out- 
stretched hands,  and  eyes  upraised  to  their  idol, 
fixed  with  a  vehemence  that  seemed  almost  to 
start  them  from  their  sockets.  The  agony  of 
his  eye,  contrasting  with  the  prostrate,  reckless 
worship  of  his  attitude,  but  too  well  told  his  tale  : 
I  beheld  the  mortal  conflict  between  the  con- 
science and  the  will  —  the  visible  struggle  of  a 
soul  in  the  toils  of  sin.  I  could  look  no  longer. 

As  I  turned,  the  prior  was  standing  before  me. 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  if  replying  to  my  thoughts, 
"  it  is  indeed  terrific.  Had  you  beheld  it  unmov- 
ed, you  had  been  the  first  that  ever  did  so." 

"  There  is  a  tremendous  reality  in  the  picture 
that  comes  home  to  every  man's  imagination ; 
even  the  dullest  feel  it,  as  if  it  had  the  power  of 
calling  up  that  faculty  in  minds  never  before  con- 
scious of  it." 

The  effect  of  this  extraordinary  work  was  so 
unlike  what  I  had  hitherto  experienced  from  pic- 
tures, that  it  was  not  until  some  time  after  I  had 
returned  to  my  companion's  apartment,  that  I 
thought  of  making  any  inquiry  concerning  the 
artist. 

"  Your  curiosity  is  natural,"  said  the  prior ; 
"  but  I  cannot  talk  on  this  subject."  The  good 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

man  here  turned  away  to  conceal  his  emotion.  I 
could  not  with  decency  press  him  further,  and  rose 
to  retire  ;  when  he  requested  me  to  stop.  After 
a  little  while,  unlocking  a  cabinet,  he  put  into  my 
hands  the  following  manuscript.  "  There,"  said 
he,  "  if  you  wish  to  know  more  of  the  picture  and 
its  author,  is  what  will  satisfy  you.  I  do  not  offer 
it  to  gratify  your  curiosity  :  it  will  touch,  if  I 
mistake  not,  a  worthier  feeling.  The  narrative 
is  brief,  and,  perhaps,  somewhat  sketchy  ;  but  it 
is  sufficiently  particular  for  the  purpose  for  which 
it  was  written.  It  was  drawn  up  by  one  well  ac- 
quainted with  most  of  the  persons  you  will  find 
described  in  it." 


MONALDI. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AMONG  the  students  of  a  seminary  at  Bologna 
were  two  friends,  more  remarkable  for  their  at- 
tachment to  each  other,  than  for  any  resemblance 
in  their  minds  or  dispositions.  Indeed  there  was 
so  little  else  in  common  between  them,  that  hardly 
two  boys  could  be  found  more  unlike.  The  char- 
acter of  Maldura,  the  eldest,  was  bold,  grasping, 
and  ostentatious ;  while  that  of  Monaldi,  timid 
and  gentle,  seemed  to  shrink  from  observation. 
The  one,  proud  and  impatient,  was  ever  laboring 
for  distinction ;  the  world,  palpable,  visible,  audible, 
was  his  idol ;  he  lived  only  in  externals,  and  could 
neither  act  nor  feel  but  for  effect ;  even  his  secret 


20  MONALDI. 

reveries  having  an  outward  direction,  as  if  he 
could  not  think  without  a  view  to  praise,  and 
anxiously  referring  to  the  opinion  of  others  ;  in 
short,  his  nightly  and  his  daily  dreams  had  but  one 
subject  —  the  talk  and  the  eye  of  the  crowd.  The 
other,  silent  and  meditative,  seldom  looked  out  of 
himself  either  for  applause  or  enjoyment ;  if  he 
ever  did  so,  it  was  only  that  he  might  add  to,  or 
sympathize  in  the  triumph  of  another ;  this  done, 
he  retired  again,  as  it  were  to  a  world  of  his  own, 
where  thoughts  and  feelings,  filling  the  place  of 
men  and  things,  could  always  supply  him  with 
occupation  and  amusement. 

Had  the  ambition  of  Maldura  been  less,  or  his 
self-knowledge  greater,  he  might  have  been  a 
benefactor  to  the  world.  His  talents  were  of  a 
high  order.  Perhaps  few  have  ever  surpassed  him 
in  the  power  of  acquiring  ;  to  this  he  united  per- 
severance ;  and  all  that  was  known,  however  va- 
rious and  opposite,  he  could  master  at  will.  But 
here  his  power  stopped;  beyond  the  regions  of 
discovered  knowledge  he  could  not  see,  and  dared 
not  walk,  for  to  him  all  beyond  was  "  outer  dark- 
ness ;"  in  a  word,  with  all  his  gifts  he  wanted  that 
something,  whatever  it  might  be,  which  gives  the 
living  principle  to  thought.  But  this  sole  defi- 
ciency was  the  last  of  which  he  suspected  himself. 


MONALDI.  21 

With  that  self-delusion  so  common  to  young  men 
of  mistaking  the  praise  of  what  is  promising  for 
that  of  the  thing  promised,  he  too  rashly  con- 
founded the  ease  with  which  he  carried  all  the 
prizes  of  his  school  with  the  rare  power  of  com- 
manding at  pleasure  the  higher  honors  of  the 
world. 

But  the  honors  of  a  school  are  for  things  and 
purposes  far  different  from  those  demanded  and 
looked  for  by  the  world.  Maldura  unfortunately 
did  not  make  the  distinction.  His  various  know- 
ledge, though  ingeniously  brought  together,  and 
skilfully  set  anew,  was  still  the  knowledge  of 
other  men ;  it  did  not  come  forth  as  in  new  birth, 
from  the  modifying  influence  of  his  own  nature. 
His  mind  was  hence  like  a  thing  of  many  parts, 
yet  wanting  a  whole  —  that  realizing  quality  which 
the  world  must  feel  before  it  will  reverence.  In 
proportion  to  its  stores  such  a  mind  will  be  valued, 
and  even  admired ;  but  it  cannot  command  that 
inward  voice  —  the  only  true  voice  of  fame,  which 
speaks  not,  be  it  in  friend  or  enemy,  till  awakened 
by  the  presence  of  a  master  spirit. 

Such  were  the  mind  and  disposition  of  Maldura  ; 
and  from  their  unfortunate  union  sprang  all  the 
after  evils  in  his  character.  As  yet,  however,  he 
was  known  to  himself  and  others  only  as  a  re- 


22  MONALDI. 

markable  boy.  His  extraordinary  attainments 
placing  him  above  competition,  he  supposed  him- 
self incapable  of  so  mean  a  passion  as  envy ; 
indeed  the  high  station  from  which  he  could  look 
down  on  his  associates  gave  a  complacency  to  his 
mind  not  unfavorable  to  the  gentler  virtues  ;  he 
was,  therefore,  often  kind,  and  even  generous 
without  an  effort.  Besides,  though  he  disdained 
to  affect  humility,  he  did  not  want  discretion,  and 
that  taught  him  to  bear  his  honors  without  arro- 
gance. His  claims  were  consequently  admitted 
by  his  schoolfellows  without  a  murmur.  But  there 
was  one  amongst  them  whose  praises  were  marked 
by  such  warmth  and  enthusiasm  as  no  heart  not 
morally  insensible  could  long  withstand  ;  this  youth 
was  Monaldi.  Maldura  naturally  had  strong  feel- 
ings, and  so  long  as  he  continued  prosperous  and 
happy,  their  course  was  honorable.  He  requited 
the  praises  of  his  companion  with  his  esteem  and 
gratitude,  which  soon  ripened  into  a  friendship  so 
sincere  that  he  believed  he  could  even  lay  down 
his  life  for  him. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  two  natures  so  opposite 
became  mutually  attracted.  But  the  warmth  and 
magnanimity  of  Monaldi  were  all  that  was  yet 
known  to  the  other  ;  for,  though  not  wanting  in 
academic  learning,  he  was  by  no  means  distin- 


MONALDI.  23 

guished  ;  indeed,  so  little,  that  Maldura  could  not 
but  feel  and  lament  it. 

The  powers  of  Monaldi,  however,  were  yet  to 
be  called  forth.  And  it  was  not  surprising  that  to 
his  youthful  companions  he  should  have  then  ap- 
peared inefficient,  there  being  a  singular  kind  of 
passiveness  about  him  easily  mistaken  for  vacancy. 
But  his  was  like  the  passiveness  of  some  uncultur- 
ed spot,  lying  unnoticed  within  its  nook  of  rocks, 
and  silently  drinking  in  the  light,  and  the  heat, 
and  the  showers  of  heaven,  that  nourish  the  seeds 
of  a  thousand  nameless  flowers,  destined  one  day 
to  bloom  and  to  mingle  their  fragrance  with  the 
breath  of  nature.  Yet  to  common  observers  the 
external  world  seemed  to  lie  only 

"  Like  a  load  upon  his  weary  eye  ; " 

but  to  them  it  appeared  so  because  he  delighted 
to  shut  it  out,  and  to  combine  and  give  another 
life  to  the  images  it  had  left  in  his  memory ;  as  if 
he  would  sleep  to  the  real  and  be  awake  only  to  a 
world  of  shadows.  But,  though  his  emotions  sel- 
dom betrayed  themselves  by  any  outward  signs, 
there  was  nothing  sluggish  in  the  soul  of  Monaldi ; 
it  was  rather  their  depth  and  strength  that  pre- 
vented their  passage  through  the  feeble  medium  of 
words.  He  regarded  nothing  in  the  moral  or  phy- 


24  MONALDI. 

sical  world  as  tiresome  or  insignificant ;  every  ob- 
ject had  a  charm,  and  its  harmony  and  beauty,  its 
expression  and  character,  all  passed  into  his  soul 
in  all  their  varieties,  while  his  quickening  spirit 
brooded  over  them  as  over  the  elementary  forms  of 
a  creation  of  his  own.  Thus  living  in  the  life  he 
gave,  his  existence  was  too  intense  and  extended 
to  be  conceived  by  the  common  mind :  hence  the 
neglect  and  obscurity  in  which  he  passed  his  youth. 

But  the  term  of  pupilage  soon  came  to  an  end, 
and  the  friends  parted  —  each,  as  he  could,  to 
make  his  way  in  the  world. 

The  profession  which  Monaldi  had  chosen  for 
the  future  occupation  of  his  life  was  that  of  a 
painter  ;  to  which,  however,  he  could  not  be  said 
to  have  come  wholly  unprepared.  The  slight 
sketch  just  given  of  him  will  show  that  the  most 
important  part,  the  mind  of  a  painter,  he  already 
possessed  ;  the  nature  of  his  amusements  (in  which, 
some  one  has  well  observed,  men  are  generally 
most  in  earnest,)  having  unconsciously  disciplined 
his  mind  for  this  pursuit.  He  had  looked  at  Na- 
ture with  the  eye  of  a  lover  ;  none  of  her  minutest 
beauties  had  escaped  him,  and  all  that  were  stir- 
ring to  a  sensitive  heart  and  a  romantic  imagina- 
tion were  treasured  up  in  his  memory,  as  themes 
of  delightful  musing  in  her  absence  :  and  they 


MONALDI.  25 

came  to  him  in  those  moments  with  that  never- 
failing  freshness  and  life  which  love  can  best  give 
to  the  absent.  But  the  skill  and  the  hand  of  an 
artist  were  still  to  be  acquired. 

But  perseverance,  if  not  a  mark  of  genius,  is  at 
least  one  of  its  practical  adjuncts  ;  and  Monaldi 
possessed  it.  Indeed  there  is  but  one  mode  of 
making  endurable  the  perpetual  craving  of  any 
master-passion  —  the  continually  laboring  to  satisfy 
it.  And,  so  it  be  innocent,  how  sweet  the  reward  ! 
giving  health  to  the  mind  without  the  sense  of 
toil.  This  Monaldi  enjoyed ;  for  he  never  felt 
that  he  had  been  toiling,  even  when  the  dawn,  as 
it  often  happened,  broke  in  upon  his  labors. 

Without  going  more  into  detail,  in  a  very  few 
years  Monaldi  was  universally  acknowledged  to  be 
the  first  painter  in  Italy.  His  merit,  however,  was 
not  merely  comparative.  He  differed  from  his 
contemporaries  no  less  in  kind  than  in  degree.  If 
he  held  anything  in  common  with  others,  it  was 
with  those  of  ages  past  —  with  the  mighty  dead  of 
the  fifteenth  century ;  from  them  he  had  learned 
the  language  of  his  art,  but  his  thoughts,  and  their 
turn  of  expression  were  his  own.  His  originality, 
therefore  was  felt  by  all ;  and  his  country  hailed 
him  as  one  coming,  in  the  spirit  of  Raffaelle,  to 
revive  by  his  genius  her  ancient  glory. 


26  MONALDI. 

It  is  not,  however,  to  be  supposed,  that  the 
claims  of  the  new  style  were  allowed  at  once, 
since  it  required  not  only  the  acquisition  of  a  new 
taste,  but  the  abandoning  an  old  one.  In  what  is 
called  a  critical  age,  which  is  generally  that  which 
follows  the  age  of  production,  it  is  rarely  that  an 
original  author  is  well  received  at  once.  There 
are  two  classes  of  opponents,  which  he  is  almost 
sure  to  encounter  :  the  one  consists  of  those  who, 
without  feeling  or  imagination,  are  yet  ambitious  of 
the  reputation  of  critics  ;  who  set  out  with  some 
theory,  either  ready  made  to  their  hands  and  purely 
traditional,  or  else  reasoned  out  by  themselves  from 
some  plausible  dogma,  which  they  dignify  with 
the  name  of  philosophy.  As  these  criticise  for  dis- 
tinction, every  work  of  art  becomes  to  them,  of 
course,  a  personal  affair,  which  they  accordingly 
approach  either  as  patrons  or  enemies ;  and  woe 
to  the  poor  artist  who  shall  have  had  the  hardihood 
to  think  for  himself.  In  the  other  class  is  com- 
prised the  well-meaning  multitude,  who,  having  no 
pretensions  of  their  own,  are  easily  awed  by  au- 
thority ;  and,  afraid  to  give  way  to  their  natural 
feeling,  receive  without  distrust  the  more  confident 
dicta  of  these  self-created  arbiters.  Perhaps  at  no 
time  was  the  effect  of  this  peculiar  usurpation 
more  sadly  illustrated  than  in  the  prescriptive 


MONALDI.  27 

commonplace  which  distinguished  the  period  of 
which  we  speak.  The  first  appearance  of  Monal- 
di  was  consequently  met  by  an  opposition  propor- 
tioned to  the  degree  of  his  departure  from  the 
current  opinions.  But  as  his  good  sense  had  re- 
strained him  from  venturing  before  the  public  until 
by  long  and  patient  study  he  had  felt  himself  en- 
titled to  take  the  rank  of  a  master,  he  bore  the 
attacks  of  his  assailants  with  the  equanimity  of  one 
who  well  knew  that  the  ground  he  stood  upon  was 
not  the  quicksand  of  self-love.  Besides,  he  had 
no  vanity  to  be  wounded,  and  the  folly  of  their 
criticisms  he  disdained  to  notice,  leaving  it  to  time 
to  establish  his  claims.  Nor  was  this  wise  for- 
bearance long  unrewarded,  for  it  is  the  nature  of 
truth,  sooner  or  later,  to  command  recognition  ; 
some  kindred  mind  will  at  last  respond  to  it ;  and 
there  is  no  true  response  that  is  not  given  in  love  ; 
hence  the  lover-like  enthusiasm  with  which  it  is 
hailed,  and  dwelt  upon,  until  the  echo  of  like 
minds  spreads  it  abroad,  to  be  finally  received  by 
the  many  as  a  matter  of  faith.  It  was  so  with 
Monaldi. 

As  our  business,  however,  is  rather  with  the 
man  than  the  painter,  we  shall  only  stop  to  notice 
one  of  his  works ;  and  that  less  as  being  the  cause 
of  his  final  triumph,  than  as  illustrating  the  pecu- 


28  MONALDI. 

liar  character  of  his  mind.  The  subject  of  the 
picture  was  the  first  sacrifice  of  Noah  after  the 
subsiding  of  the  waters  ;  a  subject  of  little  promise 
from  an  ordinary  hand,  but  of  all  others,  perhaps, 
the  best  suited  to  exhibit  that  rare  union  of  intense 
feeling  and  lofty  imagination  which  characterized 
Monaldi.  The  composition  consisted  of  the  patri- 
arch and  his  family,  at  the  altar,  which  occupied 
the  foreground  ;  a  distant  view  of  mount  Ararat, 
with  the  ark  resting  on  its  peak  ;  and  the  interme- 
diate vale.  These  were  scanty  materials  for  a 
picture  ;  but  the  fulness  with  which  they  seemed 
to  distend  the  spectator's  mind  left  no  room  for 
this  thought.  There  was  no  dramatic  variety  in 
the  kneeling  father  and  his  kneeling  children  ;  they 
expressed  but  one  sentiment  —  adoration  ;  and  it 
seemed  to  go  up  as  with  a  single  voice.  This 
gave  the  soul  which  the  spectator  felt ;  but  it  was 
one  that  could  not  have  gone  forth  under  common 
day  light,  nor  ever  have  pervaded  with  such  em- 
phatic life  other  than  the  shadowy  valley,  the 
misty  mountain,  the  mysterious  ark,  again  floating 
as  it  were  on  a  sea  of  clouds,  and  the  lurid,  deep- 
toned  sky,  dark  yet  bright,  which  spoke  to  the 
imagination  of  a  lost  and  recovered  world  —  once 
dead,  now  alive,  and  pouring  out  her  first  song  of 
praise  even  from  under  the  pall  of  death. 


MONALDI.  29 

Monaldi  was  fortunate  on  the  first  exhibition  of 
this  picture  to  have  for  his  leading  critic  the  cava- 
lier S ,  a  philosopher  and  a  poet,  though  he 

had  never  written  a  line  as  either. 

"  I  want  no  surer  evidence  of  genius  than  this," 
said  he,  addressing  Monaldi ;  "  you  are  master  of 
the  chiaro'  scuro  and  color,  two  of  the  most  pow- 
erful instruments,  I  will  not  say  of  Art,  but  of  Na- 
ture, for  they  were  her's  from  her  birth,  though 
few  of  our  painters  since  the  time  of  the  Caracci 
appear  to  have  known  it.  If  I  do  not  place  your 
form  and  expression  first,  't  is  not  that  I  under- 
value them  ;  they  are  both  true  and  elevated ;  yet, 
with  all  their  grandeur  and  power,  I  should  still 
hold  you  wanting  in  one  essential,  had  you  not 
thus  infused  the  human  emotion  into  the  sur- 
rounding elements.  This  is  the  poetry  of  the  art ; 
the  highest  nature.  There  are  hours  when  Nature 
may  be  said  to  hold  intercourse  with  man,  modify- 
ing his  thoughts  and  feelings  ;  when  man  reacts, 
and  in  his  turn  bends  her  to  his  will,  whether  by 
words  or  colors,  he  becomes  a  poet.  A  vulgar 
painter  may  perhaps  think  your  work  unnatural : 
and  it  must  be  so  to  him  who  sees  only  with  his 
eyes.  But  another  kind  of  critic  is  required  to 
understand  our  rapt  Correggio,  or  even  —  in  spite 
of  his  abortive  forms  —  the  Dutch  Rembrant. 
3* 


30  MONALDI. 

These  are  men,  whose  hearts  and  imaginations 
seem  to  have  been  so  dependent  on  each  other, 
that  I  could  easily  conceive  excess  of  misery  might 
have  driven  them  to  madness." 

But  the  cavalier  S was  not  content  with 

admiring  only,  he  added  the  picture  to  his  collec- 
tion ;  nor  did  he  stop  there,  for  he  was  one  who 
could  not  look  at  a  work  of  genius  without  a  feel- 
ing of  kindness  for  its  author  ;  and  Monaldi  was 
soon  enabled,  through  his  friendship  and  munifi- 
cence, to  follow  his  own  inclinations  and  give  free 
scope  to  his  powers. 

By  the  aid  of  this  generous  friend,  added  to  his 
own  persevering  industry,  Monaldi's  works,  and 
consequently  his  fame,  were  soon  spread  through- 
out Italy  ;  wealth  and  distinction  followed  of 
course  ;  and,  to  complete  his  triumph,  he  was 
finally  honored  with  a  special  commission  from  the 
pope  himself.  In  short,  no  artist  since  the  time 
of  Raffaelle  ever  drew  after  him  such  a  train  of 
admirers.  But  with  all  this  incense  the  head  and 
heart  of  Monaldi  remained  the  same ;  it  could  not 
soil  the  pure  simplicity  of  his  character ;  he  was 
still  the  same  gentle,  unassuming  being. 


CHAPTER   II. 

WHEN  the  friends  parted,  Maldura,  whose  course 
in  life  had  long  been  predetermined,  set  out  for 
Tuscany.  His  patrimony  having  placed  him  above 
the  necessity  of  laboring  for  his  subsistence,  he 
had  chosen  the  profession  of  letters :  and  he  now 
selected  Florence  as  the  place  most  eligible  for  the 
display  of  his  powers,  and  where,  if  not  the  most 
easy,  it  would  at  least  be  the  most  honorable  to 
realize  the  future  object  of  his  ambition  —  the  fame 
of  a  Poet.  But,  unlike  his  friend,  Maldura  coulcP 
not  find  his  chief  reward  in  the  pleasure  of  his 
pursuit ;  he  did  not  love  his  art  for  its  own  sake,  as 
the  spontaneous  growth  of  his  proper  nature,  but 
rather  for  its  contingent  fruit  in  the  applause  of 
others. 

That  his  reputation  finally  fell  so  far  short  of  the 
measure  of  his  ambition,  could  not  be  imputed  to 
the  want  of  early  encouragement,  much  less  to  any 
deficiency  in  himself  of  industry  or  confidence. 
He  had  scarcely  reached  his  twenty-third  year, 


32  MONALDI. 

,  when  he  was  elected  a  meLiber  of  the  Delia  Crus- 
ca  Academy.  This  premature  honor  seemed  an 
earnest  of  the  speedy  fulfilling  of  his  hopes  ;  and  it 
gave  a  lightness  to  his  heart  that  persuaded  him  it 
was  overflowing  with  benevolence.  It  is  difficult 
for  any  man  to  believe  this  without,  in  some  de- 
gree, acting  up  to  his  faith,  and  the  partial  testi- 
mony of  his  actions  producing  the  same  conviction 
in  others.  Maldura  seldom  received  a  compliment 
on  his  talents  without  an  accompanying  tribute  to 
his  virtues.  But  his  reputation  was  still  private ; 
for  his  conversation  and  friendly  acts  were  neces- 
sarily confined  to  his  personal  acquaintance.  He 
had  not  as  yet  become  the  talk  of  the  public ;  had 
heard  no  eager  whispering  as  he  walked  the  streets  ; 
marked  no  pointing  finger  as  he  entered  the  the- 
atre ;  and  at  no  conversazione,  had  the  tingling 
monosyllables,  "  that  's  he,"  ever  once  met  his  ear. 
But  he  consoled  himself  for  this  by  anticipating 
the  sensation  which  his  first  work  would  not  fail  to 
produce :  this  was  a  long  and  elaborate  poem,  in 
which,  it  appeared  to  him,  every  established  rule 
that  could  apply  to  his  subject  had  been  strictly  ob- 
served. 

The  poem  was  at  length  published.  Alas,  who 
that  knows  the  heart  of  an  author  —  of  an  aspiring 
one  —  will  need  be  told  what  were  the  feelings  of 


MONALDI.  33 

Maldura,  when  day  after  day,  week  after  week 
passed  on,  and  still  no  tidings  of  his  book.  To 
think  it  had  failed  was  wormwood  to  his  soul. 
"No,  that  was  impossible."  Still  the  suspense, 
the  uncertainty  of  its  fate  were  insupportable.  At 
last,  to  relieve  his  distress,  he  fastened  the  blame 
on  his  unfortunate  publisher;  though  how  he  was 
in  fault  he  knew  not.  Full  of  this  thought,  he 
was  just  sallying  forth  to  vent  his  spleen  on  him, 
when  his  servant  announced  the  count  Piccini. 

"Now,"  thought  Maldura,  "I  shall  hear  my 
fate ; "  and  he  was  not  mistaken ;  for  the  Count 
was  a  kind  of  talking  gazette.  The  poem  was 
soon  introduced,  and  Piccini  rattled  on  with  all  he 
had  heard  of  it :  he  had  lately  been  piqued  by  Mal- 
dura, and  cared  not  to  spare  him. 

After  a  few  hollow  professions  of  regard,  and  a 
careless  remark  about  the  pain  it  gave  him  to  re- 
peat unpleasant  things,  Piccini  proceeded  to  pour 
them  out  one  upon  another  with  ruthless  volubility. 
Then,  stopping  as  if  to  take  breath,  he  continued, 
"  I  see  you  are  surprised  at  all  this  ;  but  indeed,  my"1 
friend,  I  cannot  help  thinking  it  principally  owing 
to  your  not  having  suppressed  your  name ;  for 
your  high  reputation,  it  seems,  had  raised  such 
extravagant  expectations  as  none  but  a  first  ratej 
genius  could  satisfy." 


34 


"  By  which,"  observed  Maldura,  "  I  am  to  con- 
clude that  my  work  has  failed  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  —  not  exactly  that ;  it  has  only  not 
been  praised  —  that  is,.  I  mean  in  the  way  you 
might  have  wished.  But  do  not  be  depressed ; 
there 's  no  knowing  but  the  tide  may  yet  turn  in 
your  favor." 

"  Then  I  suppose  the  book  is  hardly  as  yet 
known  ?  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon — quite  the  contrary. 
When  your  friend  the  Marquis  introduced  it  at  his 
last  conversazione,  every  one  present  seemed  quite 
aufait  on  it,  at  least,  they  all  talked  as  if  they  had 
read  it." 

Maldura  bit  his  lips.  "  Pray  who  were  the  com- 
pany ?  "  "  Oh,  all  your  friends,  I  assure  you : 
Guattani,  Martello,  Pessuti,  the  mathematician,  Al- 
fieri,  Benuci,  the  Venetian  Castelli,  and  the  old 
Ferrarese  Carnesecchi :  these  were  the  principal, 
but  there  were  twenty  others  who  had  each  some- 
thing to  say." 

Maldura  could  not  but  perceive  the  malice  of 
this  enumeration  ;  but  he  checked  his  rising  choler. 
"  Well,"  said  he,  "  if  I  understand  you,  there  was 
but  one  opinion  respecting  my  poem  with  all  this 
company  ? " 

"Oh,  by  no  means.  Their  opinions  were  as 
various  as  their  characters." 


MONALDI.  35 

"  Well,  Pessuti  —  what  said  he  ? " 

"  Why  you  know  he 's  a  mathematician,  and 
should  not  regard  him.  But  yet,  to  do  him  jus- 
tice, he  is  a  very  nice  critic,  and  not  unskilled  in 
poetry." 

"  Go  on,  sir,  I  can  bear  it." 

"  Why  then,  it  was  Pessuti's  opinion  that  the 
poem  had  more  learning  than  genius." 

"  Proceed,  sir." 

"  Martello  denied  it  both  ;  but  he,  you  know,  is 
a  disappointed  author.  Guattani  differed  but  little 
from  Pessuti  as  to  its  learning,  but  contended,  that 
you  certainly  showed  great  invention  in  your  fable 
—  which  was  like  nothing  that  ever  did,  or  could 
happen.  But  I  fear  I  annoy  you." 

"  Go  on,  I  beg,  sir." 

"  The  next  who  spoke  was  old  Carnesecchi,  who 
confessed  that  he  had  no  doubt  he  should  have 
been  delighted  with  the  poem,  could  he  have  taken 
hold  of  it ;  but  it  was  so  en  regie,  and  like  a  hun- 
dred others,  that  it  put  him  in  mind  of  what  is 
called  a  polished  gentleman,  who  talks  and  bows, 
and  slips  through  a  great  crowd  without  leaving 
any  impression.  Another  person,  whose  name  I 
have  forgotten,  praised  the  versification,  but  ob- 
jected to  the  thoughts." 

"  Because  they  were  absurd  ?  " 


36  MONALDI. 

"Oh,  no,  for  the  opposite  reason  —  because 
they  had  all  been  long  ago  known  to  be  good. 
Castelli  thought  that  a  bad  reason  ;  for  his  part, 
he  said,  he  liked  them  all  the  better  for  that  —  it 
was  like  shaking  hands  with  an  old  acquaintance 
in  every  line.  Another  observed,  that  at  least  no 
critical  court  could  lawfully  condemn  them,  as 
they  could  each  plead  an  alibi.  Not  an  alibi,  said 
a  third  —  but  a  double  ;  so  they  should  be  burnt 
for  sorcery.  With  all  my  heart,  said  a  fourth  — 
but  not  the  poor  author,  for  he  has  certainly  satis- 
fied us  that  he  is  no  conjurer. 

"Then  Castelli — but,  'faith,  I  don't  know  how 
to  proceed." 

"  You  are  over  delicate,  sir.  Speak  out,  I  pray 
you." 

"  Well,  Benuci  finished  by  the  most  extravagant 
eulogy  I  ever  heard." 

Maldura  took  breath. 

"  For  he  compared  your  hero  to  the  Apollo  Bel- 
vedere, your  heroine  to  the  Venus  de  Medicis,  and 
your  subordinate  characters  to  the  Diana,  the  Her- 
cules, the  Antinuous.  and  twenty  other  celebrated 
antiques  ;  declared  them  all  equally  well  wrought, 
and  beautiful  —  and  like  them  too,  equally  cold, 
hard,  and  motionless.  In  short,  he  maintained 
that  you  were  the  boldest  and  most  original  poet 


MONALDI.  37 

he  had  ever  known ;  [for  none  but  a  hardy  genius, 
who  consulted  nobody's  taste  but  his  own,  would 
have  dared  like  you,  to  draw  his  animal  life  from 
a  statue-gallery,  and  his  vegetable  from  a  hortus 
siccus."7 

Maldura's  heart  stiffened  within  him,  but  his 
pride  controlled  him,  and  he  masked  his  thoughts 
with  something  like  composure.  Yet  he  dared 
not  trust  himself  to  speak,  but  stood  looking  at 
Piccini,  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  go  on.  "  I  believe 
that  's  all,"  said  the  count,  carelessly  twirling  his 
hat,  and  rising  to  take  leave. 

Maldura  roused  himself,  and,  making  an  effort, 
said,  "  No,  sir,  there  is  one  person  whom  you  have 
only  named  — ^Alfieri ;  what  did  he  say  ?  "  v? 

"  Nothing  !  "  Piccini  pronounced  this  word 
with  a  graver  tone  than  usual ;  it  was  his  fiercest 
bolt,  and  he  knew  that  a  show  of  feeling  would 
send  it  home.  Then,  after  pausing  a  moment,  he 
hurried  out  of  the  room. 

Maldura  sunk  back  in  his  chair,  and  groaned  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  spirit.  "  As  for  the  wretches 
who  make  a  trade  of  sarcasm,  and  whose  petty 
self-interest  would  fatten  on  the  misfortunes  of  a 
rival,  I  can  despise  them  ;  but  Alfieri  —  the  manly, 
just  Alfieri  —  to  see  me  thus  mangled,  torn  piece- 
meal before  his  eyes,  and  say  nothing !  Am  I  then 
4 


38  MONALDI. 

beneath  his  praise  ?  Could  he  not  find  one  little 
spark  of  genius  in  me  to  kindle  up  his  own,  and 
consume  my  base  assassins  ?  No  —  he  saw  them 
pounce  upon,  and  embowel  me,  and  yet  said 
nothing." 

Maldura  closed  his  eyes  to  shut  out  the  light  of 
day  ;  but  neither  their  lids,  nor  the  darkness  of 
night  could  shut  out  from  his  mind  the  hateful 
forms  of  his  revilers.  He  saw  them  in  their  as- 
semblies, on  the  Corso,  in  the  coffee-houses,  knot- 
ted together  like  fiends,  and  making  infernal  mirth 
with  the  shreds  and  scraps  of  his  verses,  while  the 
vulgar  rabble,  quitting  their  games  of  domino,  and 
grinning  around,  showed  themselves  but  too  happy 
to  have  chanced  there  at  the  sport.  In  fine,  there 
are  no  visions  of  mortified  ambition  which  did  not 
rise  up  before  him.  But  they  did  not  subdue  his 
pride.  Yet  it  was  near  a  week  before  he  could 
collect  sufficient  courage  to  stir  abroad  ;  nor  did 
he  then  venture  till  he  had  well  settled  the  course 
he  meant  to  pursue,  namely,  to  treat  all  his  ac- 
quaintance still  with  civility  ;  to  appear  as  little 
concerned  about  his  failure  as  possible,  well  know- 
ing that  in  proportion  to  his  dejection  would  be  the 
triumph  of  his  enemies ;  but  to  accept  no  favor, 
and  especially  to  have  no  friend  ;  —  a  resolution 
which  showed  the  true  character  of  the  man,  who 


MONALDI.  39 

could  not  endure  even  kindness,  unless  offered  as 
incense  to  his  pride. 

This  artificial  carriage  had  the  desired  effect? 
It  silenced  the  flippant,  and  almost  disarmed  the 
malignant ;  while  those  of  kinder  natures  saw  in  it 
only  additional  motives  for  respect ;  indeed  there 
were  some  even  generous  enough  to  think  better 
of  his  genius  for  the  good  temper  with  which  he 
seemed  to  bear  his  disappointment.  In  short,  so 
quietly  did  he  pass  it  off,  that  after  a  few  months 
no  one  thought,  or  appeared  to  think,  of  Maldura 
as  an  unsuccessful  author. 

But  it  was  scored  in  his  heart,  never  to  be  for- 
gotten, and  he  longed  for  vengeance.  To  effect 
this,  however,  he  must  first  possess  literary  power ; 
and  that  he  knew  could  be  gained  only  by  success 
in  writing. 

But  was  he  in  a  fit  temper  for  poetry  ?  There 
are  some  minds  to  which  such  a  blow  would  have 
been  death.  Not  such  was  Maldura's.  He  had 
not  lost  his  self-confidence  ;  and  was  willing  to 
ascribe  his  failure  to  anything  but  his  own  defi- 
ciency ;  to  the  jealousy  of  his  rivals,  to  their  influ- 
ence over  the  many ;  to  the  general  apathy  to  his 
particular  subject ;  nay,  even  to  his  originality,  and 
to  the  common  fear  of  praising  what  is  new :  so 
that  instead  of  weakening,  it  tended  rather  to 


40  MONALDI. 

strengthen  his  powers.  He  had  two  works  on 
hand,  a  satiric  poem,  and  a  tragedy ;  with  the  first 
he  could  now  go  on  con  amore,  having  no  lack  of 
wit,  and  being  now  surcharged  with  gall ;  and  that 
no  one  might  suspect  him  as  the  author,  he  deter- 
mined to  go  to  Rome,  and  send  it  thence,  under  a 
feigned  name,  to  Florence. 

The  poem  was  soon  finished,  and  sent  from 
Rome  accordingly.  About  a  month  after,  he  re- 
ceived two  letters,  one  bearing  his  assumed  name 
and  the  other  his  real  one.  He  tore  them  open  as 
a  hawk  would  a  sparrow.  Glancing  at  the  signa- 
ture of  that  in  his  own  name,  he  read  "  Piccini." 
He  was  about  to  dash  it  to  the  ground  when  his 
eye  caught  the  following  words  :  "  The  whole 
town  rings  with  the  praises  of  this  unknown  poet. 
Every  body  talks  of,  and  admires  him  ;  even  Be- 
nuci  commends,  without  a  dash  of  irony."  Mai- 
dura  grinned  with  triumph.  "  Wretch  !  "  said  he, 
crushing  the  letter,  "  you  know  not  that  the  man 
whom  you  would  wound  with  the  praise  of  another 
is  himself  that  other.  But  the  count  Piccini  shall 
one  day  know  the  satirist  better."  The  other  let- 
ter was  from  his  bookseller,  informing  him  of  the 
rapid  sale  and  complete  success  of  his  work,  and 
enclosing  a  complimentary  sonnet  from  Castelli. 

Though  Maldura  had  fixed  his  eye  upon  a  far 


MONALDI.  41 

higher  mark  than  the  reputation  of  a  mere  satirist, 
which  he  held  almost  in  disdain  in  comparison 
with  that  to  which  his  genius  was  entitled,  at  any 
rate  as  insufficient  for  his  ambition,  —  he  was  yet 
for  the  present  content  to  enjoy  his  triumph,  and 
it  pleased  him  to  regard  it  as  an  earnest  of  the 
success  of  his  tragedy. 


CHAPTER  III. 

MALDURA  was  now  comparatively  gay  of  heart, 
and  mixed  again  with  society.  The  reputation  of 
his  learning  procured  him  the  same  attentions  in 
Rome  as  in  Florence  ;  and  as  there  had  been  no 
outward  change  in  him,  he  had  no  difficulty  in 
making  acquaintance. 

Among  the  most  cordial  of  these  new  friends 
was  a  distinguished  advocate,  a  near  relation  of  the 
pope,  of  the  name  of  Landi.  He  had  taken  a  par- 
ticular pleasure  in  Maldura's  conversation,  and  had 
often  invited  him  to  his  house ;  but  Maldura,  with 
the  perverseness  which  now  began  to  be  the  rule 
of  his  conduct,  had  as  often  declined  these  invita- 
tions, and  for  the  very  reason  that  would  have  in- 
duced another  to  accept  them  —  because  they 
were  really  cordial.  He  was  greedy  of  admirers, 
but  his  growing  habit  of  distrust  shrunk  from  inti- 
macy. In  a  moment  of  caprice,  however,  he  at 
last  went. 

The   advocate   received    his   guest  with   great 


MONALDI.  43 

heartiness,  and  introduced  him  to  his  daughter 
with  such  encomiums  as  plainly  marked  him  a 
favorite. 

It  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  look  upon  Ro- 
salia Landi  with  indifference.  Her  beauty  was  of 
a  kind  which  might  be  called  universal  —  at  least, 
in  effect,  for  it  was  difficult  to  determine  whether 
it  were  more  striking  or  winning  ;  whether  it  lay 
more  in  the  just  proportion  and  harmony  of  her 
features,  or  in  the  exquisite  and  ever-varying  ex- 
pression that  played  over  them. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Maldura's  heart  was 
touched.  Hitherto  he  had  regarded  woman  merely 
as  belonging  to  the  regular  materials  of  poetry  ; 
had  examined  and  analyzed  their  charms,  only  to 
class  and  describe  them.  Now  he  neither  studied 
nor  thought  of  studying ;  he  could  only  feel  that 
the  object  before  him  was  lovely  ;  and  he  felt  too 
with  surprise  that  her  beauty  and  mind,  as  they 
each  alternately  won  his  admiration,  each  gave 
him  pain  almost  proportioned  to  his  pleasure.  For 
a  short  time  these  contending  emotions  perplexed 
him  ;  but  a  glance  into  his  heart  explained  all  — 
she  was  the  first  woman  with  whose  fate  he  had 
ever  felt  a  wish  to  unite  his  own.  From  that  mo- 
ment Maldura  marked  her  for  himself. 

Yet,  sudden  as  was  his  love,  it  was  not  wholly 


44  MONALDI. 

unmixed.  Wherever  there  is  a  ruling  passion  the 
affections  naturally  become  subordinate,  and  take 
their  color  from  that ;  they  have  no  singleness  of 
feeling  towards  any  object,  and  can  have  no  sym- 
pathy with  any  except  as  it  ministers  to  the  para- 
mount appetite.  It  was  so  with  Maldura.  The 
beauty  of  Rosalia  no  sooner  touched  his  heart  than 
it  mounted  to  his  brain.  He  saw  her  in  fancy 
gracing  his  future  triumphs,  and  himself,  through 
her,  the  proud  object  of  envy  ;  then  her  father's 
interest,  his  high  connexions,  and  their  influence, 
all  passed  in  array  before  him,  to  make  straight 
and  easy  the  opening  road  of  his  ambition. 

Every  time  Maldura  repeated  his  visit  the  stronger 
became  these  motives,  and  the  more  confirmed  his 
love,  till  at  last,  thus  mingling  with  all  his  hopes  of 
distinction,  the  image  of  Rosalia  took  such  hold  on 
his  heart,  that  he  could  never  think  of  the  one 
without  calling  up  the  other. 

A  few  weeks  after,  Maldura  waited  on  the  ad- 
vocate to  solicit  permission  to  address  his  daugh- 
ter. It  was  readily  granted,  and  in  the  most  flat- 
tering manner.  Landi  added,  that  he  "  should 
have  his  good  word,  but  for  the  result  he  must 
refer  him  to  his  child." 

However  sagacious  in  other  things,  there  is 
generally  in  proud  men  a  remarkable  obtuseness 


MONALDI.  45 

as  to  matters  of  the  heart  which  often  leads  them 
astray  where  they  feel  most  confident ;  their  habit  of 
looking  at  every  thing  through  the  misty  medium 
of  self-love,  prevents  their  distinguishing  those 
minute  degrees  of  good  will,  esteem,  respect,  and 
so  on  to  exclusive  preference,  with  which  a  deli- 
cate woman  graduates  her  manner  towards  those 
of  the  other  sex.  But  that  which  obscures  the 
distinctive  shades  of  objects  enlarges  their  outlines ; 
hence  little  attentions  are  easily  mistaken  for  some- 
thing more,  and,  where  often  repeated,  their  bare 
accumulation  soon  grows  to  what  is  mistaken  for 
love.  Maldura  was  troubled  with  no  doubts  about 
the  issue  of  his  suit :  how  it  terminated  may  be 
gathered  from  a  part  of  a  conversation  between 
Rosalia  and  her  father. 

"  So  far,  Rosalia,"  'said  her  father,  "  you  have 
answered  well ;  you  have  done  Maldura  justice. 
But  why  stop  with  his  talents  ?  can  you  find  no- 
thing more  to  commend  ? " 
Rosalia  still  continued  silent. 
"  You  surely  cannot  object  to  his  person  ?  " 
"  Certainly  not ;  I  have  rarely  seen  one  so  hand- 
some." 

"  Perhaps  you  dislike  his  manners  ?  " 
"  On  the  contrary,  I   think  them   uncommonly 
agreeable  :  his  address,   too,  is  even   more    than 


46  MOXALDI. 

polished,  't  is  refined ;  and  his  powers  of  enter- 
taining I  believe  are  entirely  his  own." 

"  Very  well !  Go  on,  my  dear.  —  Nay,  why 
again  silent  ?  I  fear  —  say  —  have  you  heard  any 
thing  against  his  morals  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Or  do  you  object  to  his  disposition  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  of  his  disposition,  and  cannot 
therefore  form  any  opinion  of  it." 

"  Have  a  care,  Rosalia  ;  there  is  no  species  of 
detraction  more  hard  and  cutting  than  an  icy  neg- 
ative." 

"  My  dear  father,  for  worlds  I  would  not  think 
evil — if  I  could  help  it." 

"  Then  you  cannot  help  thinking  ill  of  his  dis- 
position ? " 

"  I  did  not  say  so.  I  am  willing  to  believe  it 
good  till  I  have  proof  to  the  contrary." 

"  As  yet  ?  " 

"  Not  a  shadow  of  one." 

"  Then  I  am  satisfied ;  for  I  believe  it  to  be 
generous  and  noble.  And  I  believe,  also,  that  my 
child  is  too  just  to  harbor  any  degree  of  dislike 
without  cause." 

Rosalia  bowed  in  assent. 

Landi  proceeded  :  "  Well,  then,  since  you 
highly  approve  of  most  of  his  qualities,  and  object 


MONALDI.  47 

to  none,  what  prevents  my  dear  daughter Do 

not  be  alarmed,  Rosalia,  I  am  a  father,  not  a  ty- 
rant. I  am,  besides,  now  an  old  man,  and  have 
no  other  hold  on  the  world  but  in  you  ;  and  in 
guarding  you  from  ill,  and  leading  you  to  good,  I 
am  only  consulting  my  own  happiness." 

"  Dearest  father  !  "  said  Rosalia,  "  I  know,  I 
feel  your  goodness ;  you  have  ever  been  the  best 
of  parents  ;  and  I  should  think  myself  unworthy 
any  blessing  could  I  wilfully  cause  you  a  moment's 
pain." 

"  I  believe  it,  Rosalia.  Neither  should  I  think 
better  of  myself  were  I  disposed  to  enforce  my 
own  will  at  the  expense  of  your  quiet.  —  Now  that 
we  understand  each  other,  let  me  speak  plainly. 
Signer  Maldura  has  this  morning  asked  permission 
to  address  you.  I  will  not  trouble  you  by  repeat- 
ing my  opinion  of  his  merits  ;  you  already  know 
it,  and  know  that  it  could  not  well  be  higher. 
Need  I  say  after  this  that  it  would  please  me  to 
call  him  my  son  ?  —  that  I  think  him,  of  all  the 
men  I  have  known,  the  very  man  to  make  my 
daughter  happy  ?  —  Will  you  not  speak,  Rosalia  ? " 

"  Oh,  father  ! "  cried  Rosalia,  throwing  her 
arms  round  his  neck. 

"  Be  calm,  my  child.     Let  us  be  rational." 

Landi  led  her  to  a  chair,  and  taking  a  seat  by 


48  MONALDI. 

her,  continued :  "  I  know,  my  dear  Rosalia  —  at 
least  I  think  I  know,  the  cause  of  your  reluctance. 
You  have  a  tincture  of  romance  in  you,  which  is 
natural  enough  at  your  age  ;  and  you  have  formed, 
I  doubt  not,  certain  peculiar  notions  of  love,  which 
you  hope  one  day  to  realize.  You  have  now  just 
glanced  into  your  heart,  and  have  found  in  it  (as 
is  very  probable)  nothing  like  them.  I  should 
have  been  surprised  if  you  had  ;  for  a  real  lover  is 
not  half  so  accommodating  as  one  of  the  brain. 
But  the  shadows  of  a  youthful  imagination  pass 
away  with  youth.  Then  comes  a  sense  of  the 
substantial  and  real ;  and  with  it  a  wondering  that 
we  could  ever  have  rejected  even  the  humblest 
every-day  qualities  of  the  heart  and  understanding 
for  these  brilliant  nothings.  It  may  seem  hard  to 
ask  you,  who  are  yet  young,  to  choose  between 
them.  But  if  I  ask  it,  it  is  not  to  give  up  even 
your  fancies  for  any  commonplace  reality.  The 
qualities  of  Maldura  are  as  rare  as  real.  And  if  he 
has  not  yet  thrilled  you  with  any  of  those  tender 
emotions  —  those  pleasing  pains  —  which  your 
imagination  may  have  taught  you  to  associate  with 
love,  do  not  therefore  think  him  the  less  fitted  to 
make  you  happy.  Had  he  even  inspired  them, 
they  could  not  last ;  a  few  months,  or  a  few  weeks, 
would  bring  them  to  an  end.  Not  so  will  it  be 


MONALDI.  49 

with  the.  qualities  he  now  offers  for  your  regard  ; 
and  not  so  would  you  find  it,  when  courted  and 
honored  as  the  wife  of  the  first  genius  of  the 
age." 

"  My  dear  father,"  said  Rosalia,  "  I  would  that 
I  could  reason  on  this  subject,  but  —  indeed  I 
cannot." 

"  Strange  !  You  hint  not  even  an  objection,  and 
yet —  Do  you  think  I  overrate  him?" 

"  No ;  he  deserves  all  you  say  of  him ;  but  yet — " 

"  You  would  still  reject  him  ?  " 

Rosalia  was  silent. 

"  If  you  esteem,  you  may  certainly  love  ;  nay, 
it  will  follow  of  course." 

"  Did  you  always  think  so,  sir  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  not.  When  I  was  young,  I  was  no 
doubt  fanciful,  like  others." 

"  And  yet  you  did  not  marry  till  past  thirty." 

"  Well,  child  ?" 

"  My  mother  died  when  I  was  too  young  to 
know  her  ;  but  I  have  heard  her  character  so  often 
from  yourself  and  others,  that  I  have  it  now  as 
fresh  before  me  as  if  she  had  never  been  taken 
from  us.  Was  she  not  mild  and  gentle  ?  " 

"  As  the  dew  of  heaven." 

"  And  her  mind  ? " 

"  The  seat  of  every  grace  and  virtue." 

5 


50  MONALDI. 

"  And  her  person  too  was  beautiful  ?  " 

"  Except  yourself,  I  have  never  seen  a  creature 
so  lovely." 

"  And  did  she  make  you  a  good  wife  ?  " 

Landi  turned  pale.  "Rosalia  —  my  child  — 
why  remind  me,  by  these  cruel  questions,  of  a  loss 
which  the  whole  world  cannot  repair  ? " 

"  She  was  then  all  you  wished  ;  and  yet  I  have 
heard  that  yours  was  a  love-match." 

"No  more,"  cried  Landi,  averting  his  face. 
"  You  have  conquered." 

Rosalia  pressed  his  hand  to  her  lips. 

"  No,  my  child,"  said  her  father,  after  a  few 
minutes,  "  though  my  head  is  old,  I  find  that  my 
heart  is  still  young  as  ever.  I  will  not  tempt  you 
to  a  lukewarm  vow  :  you  are  a  living  counterpart 
of  her  who  would  have  rejected  a  monarch  for 
your  father  —  like  her,  too,  you  shall  choose  ac- 
cording to  the  impulse  of  your  own  pure  heart." 

Landi,  wishing  to  save  his  friend  pain,  lost  no 
time  in  communicating  the  result  of  this  confer- 
ence. When  Maldura  heard  it  he  stood  for  a 
moment  like  one  suddenly  waked  from  sleep, 
doubting  if  the  words,  which  still  echoed  in  his 
ears,  were  really  those  of  another  person,  or  the 
mere  coinage  of  his  brain.  But  it  was  only  for  a 
moment ;  the  compassionate  tone  of  Landi,  his 


MONALDI.  51 

look  of  sympathy,  and  the  tremulous  pressure  of 
his  hand,  soon  convinced  him  of  their  reality.  Yet 
even  then  he  doubted ;  not  that  he  had  heard 
them,  but  of  their  truth  ;  he  doubted  Landi's  sin- 
cerity, and  thought  it  a  contrivance  to  rid  himself 
decently  of  the  connexion.  This  suspicion  brought 
the  whole  man  into  his  face  ;  but  he  constrained 
himself  to  be  civil,  whilst  he  persisted  in  refusing 
to  take  any  denial  but  from  the  lady  herself. 
Landi,  finding  it  in  vain  to  remonstrate,  at  last 
consented  that  Maldura  should  wait  on  Rosalia  the 
next  morning.  —  The  interview  was  short  and  de- 
cisive. But  never  was  refusal  uttered  with  more 
gentleness  and  delicacy.  And  never  did  rejected 
lover  hear  his  own  merits  more  eloquently  set  forth 
than  did  Maldura,  even  when  the  lips  of  Rosalia 
pronounced  his  doom.  "  Blame  not  my  will,"  she 
concluded,  "  but  —  if  any  thing  —  my  heart,  that 
knows  no  control  but  from  its  own  wayward 
fancies." 

The  character  of  Rosalia  was  of  that  nice  mix- 
ture of  softness  and  firmness  which  makes  the  per- 
fection of  woman.  The  first  she  derived  from  na- 
ture ;  the  last  was  the  result  of  principle  ;  and 
while  from  the  one  she  was  open  to  every  impres- 
sion of  the  affections,  the  regular  watchfulness  of 
the  other  effectually  guarded  her  from  all  that 


52  MONALDI. 

would  not  stand  its  scrutiny.  This  moral  subor- 
dination, or  rather  just  balance  between  sense  and 
sensibility,  not  unfrequently  subjected  her,  with 
superficial  observers,  to  the  imputation  of  coldness. 
But  hers  was  the  coldness  of  her  better  judgment, 
only  occasional,  and  always  with  a  purpose.  When 
her  heart  was  opened,  and  with  the  sanction  of  her 
principles,  the  whole  woman  gave  way  at  once. 

It  was,  no  doubt,  the  consciousness  of  her  dis- 
position to  this  prodigal  self-abandonment  of  the 
heart  that  first  led  her  to  seek  a  less  fallacious 
guide  than  her  own  sanguine  impulses.  Happily 
her  father's  instructions  here  came  to  her  aid  ;  and 
as  Landi  was  a  man  of  sincere  piety,  it  may 
readily  be  inferred  that  the  guide  she  found  in 
them  was  religion.  Hence  that  high  standard  of 
excellence  by  which  she  was  accustomed  to  meas- 
ure all  that  approached  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 


HAD  Maldura  loved  Rosalia  Landi  for  herself, 
manner  in  which  she  had  rejected  him  would  have 
exalted  her  still  more  in  his  estimation.  But  with 
the  loss  of  her  person  came  a  blight  on  his  hopes 
of  distinction.  Though  he  still  felt  the  same  con- 
fidence in  his  own  powers,  yet  he  could  not  bear  :-• 
to  forego  all  those  advantages  which  he  had  so 
long  counted  on  from  his  union  with  Rosalia  ;  and 
he  hated  her  as  one  who  had  scattered  a  glorious 
vision  of  ambition  which  her  sorcery  had  called 
up  as  if  but  to  mock  him.  But,  whatever  his 
rage,  or  hopes  of  revenge,  the  fortune  of  his  tra- 
gedy, which  was  now  on  its  way  to  Florence, 
soon  drove  her  from  his  mind.  He  had  laid  out 
his  whole  strength  on  this  performance,  sparing 
neither  time  nor  labor,  and  giving  to  it  the  highest 
finish  ;  so  that  when  he  sent  it  he  felt  that  he  had 
done  his  best,  and  that  should  it  fail  it  would  be 
from  some  fatality  which  he  could  not  control  :  it 
was  his  last  stake,  and  he  was  willing  to  rest  his 
5* 


54  MONALDI. 

all  upon  it ;  for  the  more  he  considered  it,  whether 
in  the  whole  or  in  parts,  the  better  he  was  satisfied 
that  it  could  not  fail. 

The  success  of  his  satire  immediately  procured 

the  tragedy  a  good  reception  at  the  theatre  ;  it 

was  already  announced  for  representation,   and 

Maldura  had  only  to  wait  for  the  decision  of  the 

public.     He   did  not  wait  long ;  the  fate  of  the 

Tplay  soon  reached  him  :  it  had  fallen  dead  on  the 

sboards  the  first  night.     So  wrote  the  manager. 

This  was  an  unlooked-for  blow  ;  and  he  sat  for 
near  an  hour  gazing  upon  the  manager's  letter,  as 
if  endeavoring  to  recall,  he  knew  not  what ;  for 
its  purport  was  gone  ere  hardly  known.  But  his 
recollection  soon  returned.  Better  had  it  not,  than 
so  to  make  visible  the  utter  desolation  within  him 
—  to  show  him  a  mind  without  home  or  object ; 
for  he  could  look  neither  back  nor  forward.  If  he 
looked  to  the  future,  in  place  of  the  splendid  visions 
that  once  rose  like  a  mirage,  he  beheld  a  desert ; 
if  he  turned  to  the  past,  his  laborious  realities,  once 
seeming  so  gorgeous,  now  left  without  purpose, 
only  cumbered  the  ground  with  their  heavy  ruins. 

In  this  hopeless  state,  however,  there  was  one 
comforter  which  never  deserted  him  —  his  indom- 
itable pride ;  it  was  this  sustained  him.  Had  a 
shadow  of  self-distrust  but  crossed  Maldura  for  a 


MONALDI.  55 

moment,  it  might  have  darkened  to  insanity ;  but 
no  doubts  of  his  genius  had  ever  entered  his  mind ; 
he  was  therefore  an  ill-used  man,  and  he  hated  the 
world  which  had  thus  withheld  his  just  rights. 
His  only  solace  now,  was  in  the  wretched  resource^ 
of  the  misanthrope,  in  that  childish  revenge  which, 
in  the  folly  of  his  anger,  he  imagines  himself 
taking  on  the  world,  by  foregoing  its  kindnesses ; 
for  there  is  small  difference  between  a  thorough 
misanthrope  and  a  sullen  child ;  indeed  their  illo- 
gical wrath  generally  takes  the  same  course  in 
both,  namely,  to  retort  an  injury  by  spiting  them- 
selves. For  the  full  indulgence  of  this  miserable 
temper,  he  retired  to  an  unfrequented  part  of  the 
city,  and,  rarely  venturing  out  except  at  night, 
it  was  generally  concluded  that  he  had  quitted 
Rome  —  where  he  was  soon  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  V. 

IT  was  about  two  years  after  the  events  recorded 
in  the  preceding  chapter,  that  Monaldi  arrived  in 
Rome;  where  his  reception  was  such  as  might 
have  amply  satisfied  him,  had  he  been  far  more 
ambitious  of  popular  admiration.  To  say,  how- 
ever, that  he  was  wholly  insensible  to  praise,  would 
not  be  true ;  so  far  as  he  believed  it  an  expression 
of  sympathy,  it  was  justly  valued,  nay,  it  was  then 
most  dear  to  him  as  one  of  the  graces  of  our  so- 
cial nature  ;  nor  did  he  affect  an  indifference  to 
that  posthumous  sympathy  with  excellence  —  that 
purest  form  of  fame  to  which  so  many  noble 
minds,  under  poverty  and  neglect,  have  patiently 
looked  —  and  looked,  alas,  for  their  only  reward. 
Yet  the  love  of  fame  was  less  a  passion  with  Mo- 
naldi than  the  result  of  a  sober  law  of  his  mind, 
which  won  his  obedience,  because  it  carried  with 
it  the  assurance  of  an  enduring  nature.  But  he 
had  no  craving  for  distinction,  much  less  for  noto- 
riety, or  what  is  popularly  called  reputation ;  in- 


MONALDI.  57 

deed,  he  had  passed  over  the  graves  of  too  many 
buried  reputations  not  to  have  learned  how  their 
common  tenure,  the  fashion  of  one  age  is  valued 
by  another. 

With  such  an  artist  it  cannot  be  supposed  that 
a  mere  adulator  of  his  name  could  have  found 
much  favor,  nor,  when  it  is  added  that  Monaldi's 
was  one  of  those  kindly  natures  to  which  the  duty 
of  repelling  is  at  all  times  painful,  will  it  be  thought 
singular  that  a  person  of  this  description  should 
have  been  to  him  an  object  of  especial  annoyance. 
It  was  to  escape  from  one  of  these  unmeaning  flat- 
terers, who  seldom  failed  to  fasten  upon  him  when- 
ever they  met,  that  Monaldi  one  day  turned  into  a 
gateway  in  an  obscure  street,  where  one  of  his 
figure  was  rarely  seen.  The  passage  leading  from 
it  was  somewhat  dark,  and  he  hoped  to  conceal 
himself  there  till  his  persecutor  had  passed,  when 
he  observed  a  person  from  within  coming  towards 
him.  The  awkwardness  of  his  situation  obliged 
him  either  to  retreat,  or  to  explain  it,  and  he  spoke. 
"Your  pardon,  Signor  —  I  pray  you  excuse  this 
intrusion."  The  stranger  started.  "  Nay,"  added 
Monaldi,  "  it  will  be  but  for  a  moment.  In  truth 
I  am  an  unlucky  artist,  who  would  merely  avoid 
a  troublesome  acquaintance." 

"  Begone  !  "  said  the  stranger. 


58  MONALDI. 

"  Good  heaven  !  "  cried  Monaldi,  "  sure  that 
voice  "  —  But  the  stranger  had  disappeared. 

"  It  is  —  it  must  be,"  said  he,  and  without  fur- 
ther thought  he  entered  the  court.  They  were  now 
under  the  open  sky.  The  stranger  stopped, — 
and  Monaldi  beheld  his  long  lost  friend. 

"  Maldura !  "  — was  all  his  full  heart  could  utter. 

Maldura  spoke  not  a  word ;  but  he  suffered  his 
hand  to  remain  passively  within  the  grasp  of  his 
friend. 

"  I  see  't  is  with  you  as  myself,"  said  Monaldi 
at  last.  "  But  how  can  words  add  to  the  joy  of 
this  meeting  ? " 

"Words! — True  —  they  are  idle."  Maldura 
was  no  hypocrite,  and  his  manly  spirit  revolted  at 
expressing  what  he  did  not  feel  —  and  what  he 
felt  his  heart  was  not  yet  hard  enough  to  utter. 
Yet  something  must  be  said  —  and  that  neither 
unkind  nor  hollow.  "  You  look  well,  Monaldi ; 
even  better  than  when  we  parted  at  Bologna." 

"That's  a  long  time  —  very  long,"  said  Monal- 
di. "  Yet,  long  as  it  is,  I  need  hardly  tell  Maldura 
that  I  could  not  recall  many  days  when  he  has 
been  out  of  my  mind  —  especially  since  I  lost 
trace  of  you.  But  where  have  you  been  all  this 
while  ?  you  know  not  how  many  ill  bodings  I  have 
had  on  account  of  your  strange  disappearance  — 


MONALDI.  59 

no  letters  —  no  clue  —  sometimes  I  thought  you 
might  have  embarked  for  Spain  —  as  you  once 
talked  of  doing  —  and  been  shipwrecked  ;  then  in 
a  more  cheerful  mood,  I  would  suppose  you  vol- 
untarily banished  to  some  quiet  solitude,  that  you 
might  give  your  whole  mind  to  some  great  work  — 
for  T  remembered  your  favorite  maxim,  that  the 
sacrifice  of  a  whole  life  were  but  a  cheap  price  for 
fame;  then  again  my  apprehensions  would  take 
the  worst  conclusion  —  that  you  had  been  robbed 
and  murdered.  Tell  me,  where  have  you  been  ? 
what  have  you  been  doing  ?  " 

"  'T  is  of  little  consequence,"  replied  Maldura. 
"  The  past  is  past  —  and  the  wisdom  of  Solomon 
could  not  make  it  better  or  worse  :  let  it  rest 
then." 

"  Nay,  I  would  not  ask  you  to  recall  what  might 
give  you  pain,  deeply  as  I  am  interested." 

"  I  did  not  say  it  would  give  me  pain  —  I  said 
it  was  useless." 

"  I  would  know  then  no  more  than  will  give  you 
pleasure.  So  we  will  talk  of  what  remains  of  the 
past.  Your  active  mind  cannot  have  been  idle, 
and  the  world  expects  much  of  you." 

"  The  world !  "  This  was  touching  a  galled 
spot.  Maldura's  eyes  flashed ;  but  a  smile  of 
fiercer  scorn  succeeded  ?  "  We  will  talk  of  the 


60  MONALDI. 

world  when  it  shall  have  become  worth  something 
better  than  an  idiot's  slaver.  But  for  ourselves  — 
we  shall  be  better  in  the  house :  'tis  not  a  palace, 
as  you  see  —  but  'twill  afford  us  shelter  from  the 
sun." 

"  You  know  I  am  not  dainty,"  answered  Mo- 
naldi.  "  Or  if  I  were,  the  place  would  be  the  last 
thing  I  should  think  of  at  this  time." 

"  I  was  not  apologizing  for  it,"  said  Maldura, 
somewhat  proudly,  "  the  knaves  and  fools  that  live 
in  palaces  might  reconcile  a  wise  man  to  one  much 
worse." 

"  Maldura' s  mind,"  said  Monaldi  —  and  he  said 
it  in  a  tone  that  spoke  anything  but  abatement  of 
his  youthful  reverence  —  "  such  a  mind  would  dig- 
nify any  palace." 

Maldura's  heart  softened  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  hated  the  world,  but  not  its  praise  ;  and  he  led 
the  way  into  the  house  with  less  reluctance  than 
he  had  expected. 

When  the  friends  left  school,  they  had  engaged 
to  write  to  each  other,  and  their  correspondence 
had  continued  with  little  interruption  up  to  the 
time  of  Maldura's  first  failure ;  when,  from  the 
fear  of  betraying  the  secret  misery  occasioned  by 
that  event,  he  discontinued  it.  Since  then,  Mo- 
naldi had  never  heard  any  tidings  of  his  friend, 


MONALDI.  61 

except  that  he  had  quitted  Florence,  but  for  what 
part  of  the  world,  he  could  never  learn.  Maldura,~\ 
however,  had  long  been  apprized  of  all  the  other's 
movements,  his  success,  and  fame  ;  but  the  more 
he  heard  of  them,  the  less  did  he  incline  to  renew 
their  intimacy ;  indeed  the  contrast  which  they 
formed  to  his  own  situation  was  among  the  sorest 
aggravations  of  his  misery.  Had  it  been  a  stran- 
ger —  any  other  man  —  so  courted  and  followed, 
he  thought  he  could  have  borne  it ;  but  to  find  an 
object  of  envy  in  his  humble  schoolfellow,  on 
whom  he  had  once  looked  down,  was  a  degrada- 
tion which  he  could  not  forgive. 

With  feelings  like  these,  it  is  not  surprising  that 
Maldura  forbore  to  seek  out  his  friend ;  nor,  when 
accident  had  brought  them  together,  and  he  recog- 
nised his  voice  in  the  gateway,  that  he  should  have 
sought  to  avoid  him.  But  his  heart  was  not  yet 
entirely  hardened,  and  his  late  interview  with  Mo- 
naldi  had  touched  it.  Yet  so  new  seemed  to  him 
the  consciousness  of  any  kind  feeling,  that  it  was 
a  considerable  time  after  Monaldi's  departure  be- 
fore he  could  realize  what  had  passed ;  and  then 
he  felt  as  if  something  had  gone  from  him  which 
he  hardly  knew  whether  to  regret  or  not.  With 
one  thing,  however,  he  was  satisfied  —  that  his 
friend  had  conceived  no  suspicion  of  the  change 
6 


62  MONALDI. 

in  his  heart ;  for,  proud  as  he  was,  Maldura  had 
still  a  secret  coveting  of  the  esteem  of  others  :  so 
that,  upon  the  whole,  he  almost  doubted  if  he 
were  sorry  for  the  meeting.  In  fact,  he  was  much 

f  better  pleased  than  he  was  willing  to  admit :  for 
however  a  misanthrope  may  pride  himself  on  the 
sovereignty  of  his  hatred,  as  long  as  he  continues 
in  this  world,  he  can  never  so  entirely  destroy  his 
social  nature  but  that  some  leaven  of  it  will  work 

Lwithin  him. 

The  intercourse  thus  renewed  between  the  two 
friends  could  not  but  differ  in  many  respects  from 
that  of  their  earlier  years.  Monaldi,  however, 
hailed  it  as  a  promise  of  many  pleasures.  His 
affectionate  disposition  had  long  felt  the  want  of  a 
friend  ;  but  his  studious  habits,  added  to  his  natu- 
ral reserve,  had  hitherto  prevented  his  forming  any 
second  intimacy ;  and  he  now  dwelt  with  delight 
on  the  thought  of  pouring  out  his  heart  into  the 
bosom  of  his  early  friend.  But  he  soon  found 
that  Maldura  was  not  that  open,  social  being  he 
had  once  known,  that  he  had  become  cold,  absent 
and  gloomy  :  though  the  change  grieved  him  and 
repressed  his  confidence,  it  did  not  lessen  his  at- 
tachment ;  and,  ascribing  it  to  some  secret  sorrow, 
he  imagined  that  his  sympathy  was  more  than  ever 
needed.  His  efforts,  however,  were  in  vain  —  the 


same  distant,  taciturn  demeanor  continued  to  repel 
every  act  of  kindness. 

It  is  the  natural  consequence  of  a  fruitless  en- 
deavor to  alleviate  the  afflictions  of  those  who  are 
dear  to  us  to  become  ourselves  partakers  of  their 
sufferings.  And  if  the  cause  of  our  pain  be  not 
hateful,  we  feel,  or  rather  fancy  that  we  shall  feel, 
relieved,  the  nearer  we  are  to  it.  Monaldi's  visits 
to  his  friend,  however,  were  seldom  followed  by 
the  effect  he  desired ;  being  for  the  most  part 
passed  in  mutual  silence,  or  in  a  few  common  re- 
marks on  indifferent  topics. 

It  was  after  a  morning  of  more  than  usual  de- 
pression and  concern  on  his  account,  that  Monaldi 
one  day  called  on  his  unhappy  friend.  Maldura's 
apathy  seemed  for  the  moment  overcome  ;  and  he 
could  not  help  expressing  surprise  at  such  an  un- 
wonted visit ;  for  it  was  scarcely  past  mid-day,  and 
he  knew  that  nothing  short  of  necessity  could  tempt 
the  devoted  artist  to  leave  his  studio  at  that  hour. 
Monaldi  simply  replied,  that  he  had  felt  indisposed 
to  work  ;  and  he  drew  a  chair  to  a  window.  The 
apartment  being  in  an  upper  story,  and  the  house 
somewhat  elevated,  commanded  an  extensive  view 
of  the  southern  portion  of  the  city,  overlooking  the 
Campo  Vaccino,  once  the  ancient  forum,  with  its 
surrounding  ruins,  and  taking  in  a  part  of  the 


64  MONALDI. 

Coliseum.  The  air  was  hot  and  close,  and  there 
f  was  a  thin  yellow  haze  over  the  distance  like  that 
which  precedes  the  scirocco,  but  the  nearer  objects 
were  clear  and  distinct,  and  so  bright  that  the  eye 
could  hardly  rest  on  them  without  quivering,  espe- 
cially on  the  modern  buildings,  with  their  huge 
sweep  of  whited  walls,  and  their  red-tiled  roofs, 
that  lay  burning  in  the  sun,  while  the  sharp,  black 
shadows,  which  here  and  there  seemed  to  indent 
the  dazzling  masses,  might  almost  have  been  fan- 
cied the  cinder-tracks  of  his  fire.  The  streets  of 
Rome,  at  no  time  very  noisy,  are  for  nothing  more 
remarkable  than,  during  the  summer  months,  for 
their  noontide  stillness,  the  meridian  heat  being 
frequently  so  intense  as  to  stop  all  business,  driv- 
ing everything  within  doors,  with  the  proverbial 
exception  of  dogs  and  strangers.  But  even  these 
might  scarcely  have  withstood  the  present  scorch- 
ing atmosphere.  It  was  now  high  noon,  and  the 
few  straggling  vine-dressers  that  were  wont  to  stir 
in  this  secluded  quarter  had  already  been  driven 
under  shelter  ;  not  a  vestige  of  life  was  to  be  seen, 
not  a  bird  on  the  wing,  and  so  deep  was  the  still- 
ness that  a  solitary  foot-fall  might  have  filled  the 
whole  air ;  neither  was  this  stillness  lessened  by 
the  presence  of  the  two  friends  —  for  nothing  so 
deepens  silence  as  man  at  rest ;  they  had  both  sat 


MONALDI.  65 

mutely  gazing  from  the  window,  and  apparently 
unconscious  of  the  lapse  of  time,  till  the  bell  of 
a  neighboring  church  warned  them  of  it. 

"  Yes,"  said  Monaldi  —  as  if  the  sound  had 
suddenly  loosed  his  tongue  — "  there  is  a  chain 
that  runs  through  all  things.  How  else  should  the 
mind  hear  the  echo  of  its  workings  from  voiceless 
rocks  ?  Mysterious  union !  that  our  very  lives 
should  seem  but  so  many  reflections  from  the  face 
of  nature  ;  and  all  about  us  but  visible  types  of  the 
invisible  man  !  Even  the  works  of  man,  the  pas- 
sive combinations  of  his  hand  —  they  too  have 
found  a  tongue  in  the  elements,  and  become  ora- 
cular to  his  heart  —  even  as  that  proud  pile  of 
Titus,  so  dark  and  desolate  within,  now  speaks 
from  without,  in  the  gorgeous  language  of  the  sun, 
to  mine.  Look,  Maldura :  here  is  to  me  a  book 
of  history  and  prophecy.  You  see  in  that  distant 
mist  the  prefigurement  of  my  future  ;  for  my  pre- 
sent state  you  need  but  look  beneath  us  —  on  this 
oppressive  splendor  ;  but  for  the  past  —  thank 
heaven,  that  is  still  mine  —  the  blessed  past !  how 
soothingly  it  speaks  to  me  in  this  humble  shade  ! " 

Maldura's  distorted  vision  saw   nothing  in  this 
but  a  covert  sally  of  pride,  and  a  half  suppressed 
sneer  passed  over  his  features  ;  but  his  confiding 
friend  gave  it  a  different  name. 
6« 


66  MONALDI. 

"  You  seem  incredulous  —  why  should  you  doubt 
that  I  look  on  the  past  with  envy  ? " 

"  Some,"  answered  Maldura,  "  might  think  that 
it  needed  at  least  faith ;  especially  to  believe  it  of 
the  favorite  of  popes  and  cardinals  —  for  you  look 
back  to  obscurity." 

"  But  not  you,  Maldura.  For  you  know  that 
that  obscurity  was  happy  —  because  those  I  loved 
were  happy ;  and  because  in  them  I  had  a  true 
home  for  all  my  wishes ;  for  we  build  not  for  our- 
selves alone  —  at  least  anything  that  can  satisfy, 
or  is  worthy  the  heart ;  and  mine  was  never  sub- 
ordinate to  the  head.  Others,  who  remember 
nothing  of  my  youth  but  its  reserve,  might  perhaps 
doubt  it ;  but  not  you.  If  I  was  reserved,  you 
well  know  it  was  neither  from  coldness  or  gloom  ; 
but  that  I  was  so  moulded  by  early  and  severe 
misfortunes.  I  was  left  an  orphan  ere  I  hardly 
knew  the  blessing  of  kindred.  This  was  the  first 
misfortune.  Then  followed  another.  That  my 
scanty  patrimony  might  be  husbanded,  I  was 
doomed  to  waste  the  first  ten  years  of  my  life 
amongst  illiterate  boors  —  though,  to  do  them 
justice,  they  were  honest.  And,  though  unletter- 
ed then  myself,  the  thousand  obscure  longings,  and 
"  deep  and  anxious  questionings,"  on  what  I  saw 
and  felt,  which  everywhere  haunted  me,  and  which 


MONALDI.  67 

no  one  could  resolve  or  satisfy,  soon  discovered  to 
me  that  I  had  but  little  in  common  with  those 
about  me ;  nay,  the  very  expression  of  my  thoughts 
was  often  answered  by  a  laugh,  or  by  the  nick- 
names of  idiot  and  dreamer  You  cannot  wonder 
then  that  I  shrunk  into  myself,  nor  that  I  at  length 
became  indeed  a  dreamer ;  for  my  whole  world 
was  within  me,  and  would  have  been  so  now  but 
for  one  being  —  bless  her  memory.  That  being 
was  my  sister." 

Monaldi  here  appeared  to  be  overcome  by  some 
tender  recollection  ;  but  after  a  moment's  pause 
he  proceeded,  as  if  in  continuation  of  his  thoughts. 
"  No,  it  would  be  selfish  to  wish  her  back.  You 
remember  her,  Maldura  ?  " 

The  question  seemed  to  rouse  Maldura  from  his 
abstraction,  and  he  raised  his  eyes  with  a  vacant 
look.  But,  wishing  to  avoid  an  explanation,  he 
nodded  in  assent. 

"  It  was  in  my  twelfth  year  that  we  met  for  the 
first  time  since  my  infancy  ;  for  you  may  remem- 
ber that  she  had  been  brought  up  by  a  distant  re- 
lation at  Modena.  What  a  strange  faculty  is  this 
memory  !  I  can  see  her  now  almost  as  distinctly 
as  if  she  were  before  me.  She  was  only  five  years 
older  than  myself,  and  yet  when  she  kissed  me  and 
looked  upon  me,  it  was  with  such  a  maternal  look 


68  MONALDI. 

—  and  she  inquired  about  my  little  concerns  in  a 
tone  so  solicitous,  so  tender,  that  I  could  never 
from  that  hour  either  think  or  speak  of  her  but 
with  the  veneration  of  a  son.  —  Yes,"  continued 
Monaldi,  while  the  recollection  seemed  to  give  a 
deeper  fervor  to  his  manner,  "  it  was  she  first 
taught  me  that  I  had  a  heart  —  and  too  large  for 
self;  who  made  it  the  companion,  nay,  controller, 
of  my  intellect,  giving  it  direction  and  purpose ; 
and  it  was  her  praise  that  made  me  long  for  fame  ; 
for  I  felt  that  it  would  make  her  happy.  But  she 
was  taken  from  me  before  the  world  knew  that 
such  a  candidate  for  its  praise  was  in  being,  or  she 
herself  had  anything  to  dwell  on  save  the  prophetic 
visions  which  her  sisterly  love  had  travelled  for  into 
the  future.  But  it  is  right,  all  right  —  she  is  hap- 
pier where  she  is.  I  need  not  name  the  other 
being  who  came  to  supply  her  loss  —  nor  how 
kindly  !  Even  now  too  I  can  see  the  stone  seat  in 
our  play-yard,  at  Bologna  —  that  good  seat !  asso- 
ciated with  so  many  nameless  acts  of  kindness, 
which  no  one  can  understand  but  an  orphan  boy  ; 
and  one  as  sensitive  as  desolate,  and  left  to  the 
cold,  boisterous  gaiety  of  a  public  school.  Yes, 
Maldura,  you  alone  in  the  wide  world  seemed  to 
feel  for  my  loss ;  and  in  that  you  did  so  you  be- 
came to  me  more  than  the  world.  I  exulted  in 


MONALDI.  69 

your  talents  ;  I  grew  proud  of  the  prizes  you  won  ; 
and  I  looked  to  your  future  fame  even  with  my 
poor  sister's  eyes,  when  she  looked  to  mine.  Why 
the  last  has  not  been  realized  I  marvel  —  that  such 
a  mind  —  " 

Maldura  ground  his  teeth. 

Monaldi  saw  the  change  in  his  countenance,  and 
stopped  :  then  added,  "  If  I  have  touched  on  what 
is  displeasing  to  you,  forgive  me.  And  yet  it  can- 
not be  that  the  expression  of  a  regret  so  natural  —  " 

"  The  less  that  is  said  of  it  the  better,"  said 
Maldura,  with  a  bitter  smile.  "  As  for  yourself — 
you  have  the  world's  trumpet.  Keep  it  —  I  would 
none  of  its  blast ;  't  is  made  up  of  the  breath  of 
fools,  or  it  may  be  knaves.  Keep  it,  then,  and  be 
content.  Good  or  bad,  't  is  yours,  they  say ;  and 
will  be,  even  when  the  grave  shall  have  walled  up 
your  ears." 

"No,  Maldura — you  have  forgotten,  or  you 
mistake,  my  heart,  if  you  think  that  fame  alone 
can  fill  it.  The  very  retrospect  I  have  just  made 
is  proof  enough.  Why  else  should  I  dwell  on 
scenes  that  are  past,  and  quit  the  palpable  present, 
to  commune  with  shadows  ?  But  I  miscall  them  ; 
they  are  shadows  only  to  my  bodily  eyes  —  to  my 
affections  they  are  substance  —  in  effect  the  truest, 
so  long  as  through  the  mysterious  memory  they 


70  MONALDI. 

can  give  that  thrilling  play  of  life  which  present 
realities  deny.  No  ;  the  solitude  of  neglect  were 
better  borne  than  solitary  grandeur.  We  are  not 
made  to  enjoy  alone  —  least  of  all  things  fame  ; 
't  is  a  fierce  splendor,  that  needs  to  be  conducted 
off  by  others  ;  if  it  rest  with  ourselves,  it  becomes 
a  fire  that,  sooner  or  later,  must  shrivel  up  the 
heart.  Had  I  parent  or  kindred  —  could  the  grave 
give  me  back  such  sharers  of  my  fame  —  but  I  will 
not  think  of  it.  Or  —  would  you,  Maldura  —  " 

Maldura  started  from  his  seat. 

"  Again  forgive  me,"  said  Monaldi,  "  I  ought 
not  so  to  obtrude  my  regrets  upon  you." 

Maldura  turned  from  him  as  if  he  would  hear 
no  more  ;  then,  stopping  awhile,  said,  "  You  have 
had  your  marvel ;  so  too  may  I.  If  you  count 
fame  nothing,  why  do  you  toil  ?  " 

"  Because  I  could  not  be  idle  and  live  ;  and 
because  I  love  my  art  for  its  own  sake.  I  should 
still  paint,  had  I  the  means,  were  I  thrown  on  a 
desolate  island." 

"  Yet  you  have  one  thing,  which  many  in  the 
world  would  think  included  all  —  wealth  ;  though 
some  indeed  have  called  it  trash  —  at  least  in 
books." 

"  And  do  you  think  so,  Maldura  ?  I  know  you 
do  not.  Yet  — "  the  thought  now  glanced  on 


MONALDI.  71 

Monaldi  that  his  friend  might  be  suffering  from 
poverty  ;.  his  face  lighted  up,  and  he  grasped  Mai- 
dura' s  hand. 

"  What  is  it  disturbs  you  ?  "  said  Maldura,  coldly 
withdrawing  his  hand. 

"  Disturb  !  oh  no  !  I  owe  you  a  thousand  thanks 
for  this  discovery.  How  could  I  have  been  so 
blind  !  This  obscure  retreat,  these  sorry  lodgings, 
speak  it  but  too  plainly." 

"  Speak  what  ?  "  asked  Maldura,  in  amazement. 

"  Your  secret.     'T  is  now  mine." 

The  blood  rushed  to  Maldura's  forehead,  and 
he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  annihilated  himself,  Mo- 
naldi, and  all  who  had  ever  known  him. 

"  And  it  has  made  me  happy,"  added  Monaldi ; 
"  for  now  I  have  something  to  live  for." 

The  conclusion  of  this  sentence  relieved  Mal- 
dura from  the  horror  of  his  suspicion,  but  it  left 
him  still  perplexed  for  its  meaning. 

Monaldi  continued.  "  But  why  should  I  waste 
time  in  useless  words.  You  have  unwittingly  be- 
trayed the  cause  of  your  distress,  Maldura;  and, 
pardon  me  that  I  rejoice  at  it.  You  suffer  from 
the  want  of  that  "  trash  "  with  which  fortune  has 
overwhelmed,  nay,  oppressed  me.  Let  me  then 
put  it  to  its  right  use,  to  the  service  of  genius  and 
virtue  ;  and  where  do  these  live  purer  and  nobler 


72  MONALDI. 

than  in  Maldura  ?  Speak  then,  and  say,  that  you 
will  allow  me  to  call  the  moiety  of  it  yours." 

As  Maldura  listened,  his  face  became  of  an 
ashy  paleness,  his  lips  quivered,  and  his  knees 
shook.  "  Pshaw  !  "  said  he  ;  and  he  instantly  re- 
covered himself. 

Monaldi  was  about  to  repeat  his  offer,  when, 
suddenly  turning  upon  him, .  Maldura  gave  him  a 
look  —  such  a  look  —  Monaldi  felt  as  if  it  had 
passed  through  him. 

"  Nay,  what 's  the  matter  ?  "  said  Maldura, 
while  a  half  compunctious  feeling  brought  the 
blood  back  to  his  cheek. 

"  Tell  me,  have  I  offended  you,  Maldura  ?  " 

"  No.  Though  I  do  not  jump  at  your  offer, 
you  must  not  think  it  offends  me ;  for,  indeed,  I 
ought  to  —  that  is  —  I  do  thank  you.  But  —  " 

"  Do  not  say  that  you  decline  it." 

"  I  must ;  for  I  am  above  want." 

"In  spirit  —  " 

"  Ay,  and  in  purse  too." 

"  Then  I  will  press  you  no  further,"  said  Mo- 
naldi. 

A  silence  of  several  minutes  followed. 

"  I  fear,"  said  Maldura  at  last,  "  I  fear  that  I 
have  not  appeared  so  sensible  to  your  kindness  as 
I  ought  to  be  ;  but,  I  am  rather  unwell  to-day  — 


MONALDI.  73 

indeed  hardly  myself —  you  will  therefore  pardon 
it." 

"  Nay,"  returned  Monaldi,  if  you  did  appear  a 
little  proud  of  your  independence,  I  ought  not  to 
blame  you :  though  you  should  not  have  thought 
that  your  sharing  my  useless  pelf  would  have  made 
you  the  less  free." 

"  But  I  do  thank  you.    Will  you  not  believe  it  ? " 

"  I  do,"  said  Monaldi,  "  from  the  bottom  of  my 
soul." 

Maldura  grasped  his  hand,  and,  pausing  a  mo- 
ment, added,  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  Monaldi !  you 
have  indeed  a  noble  heart ;  and  you  deserve  — 
yes,  you  deserve  —  all  you  possess."  He  then 
turned  away  and  passed  into  another  room. 

"  Alas  !  "  thought  Monaldi,  as  he  walked  home- 
ward, "  I  fear  his  brain  is  unsettled."  The  thought 
sunk  into  his  heart,  and  seemed  to  fix  his  friend 
there  more  firmly  than  ever. 

"  I  have  said  it !  "  said  Maldura  when  alone. 
"  Yes,  it  went  from  me  in  spite  of —  Oh,  that  I 
had  bestowed  that  word,  so  justly  merited,  on  any 
other  man.  But  I  have  said  it ;  and,  true  —  it 
ought  to  have  been  said."  Then,  as  if  he  would 
flee  from  his  thoughts,  or,  rather,  return  to  his 
wonted  mood  by  a  change  of  place,  he  snatched 
up  his  hat,  and  hurried  into  the  street ;  he  had  no 

7 


74  MONALDI. 

choice  whither,  but  the  half-formed  wish  led  him 
mechanically  to  the  desolate  baths  of  Caracalla. 
These  baths  had  long  been  his  favorite  haunt,  for 
there  was  something  in  their  ruins  he  felt  akin  with 
his  fortunes,  and  he  would  often  spend  whole  days 
and  nights  there,  sometimes  sitting  in  their  dark 
recesses,  and  given  up  to  misery,  and  sometimes 
wandering  to  and  fro,  as  if  inhaling  a  kind  of  sav- 
age refreshment  from  walking  over  the  wreck  of 
prouder  piles  than  his  own. 


CHAPTER  VI, 

IT  should  have  been  mentioned,  in  a  former  part  of 
this  narrative,  that  among  the  honors  bestowed  on 
our  artist,  soon  after  his  arrival  in  Rome,  was  the 
title  of  principal  painter  to  the  pope ;  which  was 
immediately  followed  by  an  order  for  a  series  of 
pictures  for  the  pontifical  palace  at  Monte  Cavallo. 
These  works,  which  had  occupied  him  for  several 
years,  being  now  completed,  so  added  to  his  fame, 
that  commissions  flowed  upon  him  from  all  quar- 
ters, insomuch  that  he  was  obliged  to  decline  many 
from  other  distinguished  personages  both  at  home 
and  abroad.  But  there  was  one  order  which  he 
would  have  gladly  declined  for  other  reasons,  yet, 
coming  from  the  pontiff,  it  was  a  virtual  command, 
and  he  was  fain  to  accept  it,  though  with  more 
reluctance  than  the  world  might  believe  of  one  so 
flattered  :  this  was  a  "  companion "  picture  to  a 
Madonna  by  Raffaelle.  His  notions  were  perhaps 
peculiar ;  but  we  give  them  here  as  indicative  of 
his  character. 


76  MONALDI. 

He  "  accepted  the  commission,"  he  said,  "  not 
with  the  arrogant  hope  of  producing  a  rival  to  the 
picture  of  Raffaelle,  but  in  grateful  compliance 
with  the  wishes  of  his  patron."  Be  ides,  with  a 
just  reverence  for  his  art,  he  looked  upon  all  com- 
petition as  unworthy  a  true  artist ;  nay,  he  even 
doubted  whether  any  one  could  command  the 
power  of  his  own  genius  whilst  his  mind  was  under 
the  influence  of  so  vulgar  a  motive.  "  For  what," 
he  would  say,  "  is  that  which  you  call  my  genius, 
but  the  love  and  perception  of  excellence  —  the 
twin  power  that  incites  and  directs  to  successful 
production  ?  which  can  never  coexist  with  the  de- 
sire to  diminish,  or  even  to  contend  with,  that  in 
another.  It  would  be  rather  self-love,  than  a  true 
love  of  excellence,  did  I  value  it  less  in  Raffaelle 
than  in  myself."  He  might  have  added  another 
reason :  that  competition  implying  comparison, 
and  comparison  a  difference  only  of  degree,  could 
not  really  exist  between  men  of  genius ;  since  the 
individualizing  power  by  which  we  recognise  ge- 
nius, or  the  originating  faculty,  must  necessarily 
mark  their  several  productions  by  a  difference  in 
kind.  But  he  needed  not  this  deduction  of  the 
understanding ;  his  own  lofty  impulses  placed  him 
on  surer  ground. 


MONALDI.  77 

Having  accepted  the  commission,  however,  it 
was  necessary  that  he  should  see  the  picture  which 
he  was  expected  to  equal ;  he  accordingly  waited 
on  the  gentleman  to  whose  collection  it  belonged, 
and  was  shown  into  his  gallery.  Though  Monaldi 
had  heard  much  of  this  collection,  he  found  that 
report  had  for  once  fallen  far  short  of  the  truth  ; 
and  the  pleasure  of  such  a  surprise  to  him  may  be 
imagined  by  those  who  have  witnessed  the  effect 
of  unexpected  excellence  on  a  man  of  genius. 

He  had  expected  to  see  only  a  fine  Raffaelle ; 
but  he  now  found  himself  surrounded  by  the  mas- 
ter spirits  of  Rome  and  Venice  :  they  seemed  to 
bewilder  him  with  delight,  and  he  was  wandering 
from  one  to  another,  as  if  uncertain  where  to  rest, 
when,  passing  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  gallery,  his 
eyes  fell  on  an  object  to  which  every  other  imme- 
diately gave  place.  It  was  the  form  of  a  young 
female  who  was  leaning,  or  rather  bending,  over 
the  back  of  a  chair,  and  reading.  At  first  he  saw 
only  its  general  loveliness,  and  he  gazed  on  it  as 
on  a  more  beautiful  picture,  till  a  slight  movement 
suddenly  gave  it  a  new  character  —  it  was  the 
quickening  grace  that  gives  life  to  symmetry. 
There  is  a  charm  in  life  which  no  pencil  can 
reach  —  it  thrilled  him.  But  when  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  half-averted  face,  the  pearly  fore- 

7* 


78  MONALDI. 

head,  gleaming  through  clusters  of  black,  glossy 
hair  —  the  lustrous,  intellectual  line  beneath,  just 
seen  through  the  half-closed  eyelids  —  the  tremu- 
lously-parted lips,  and  the  almost  visible  soul  that 
seemed  to  rush  from  them  upon  the  page  before 
her  —  even  the  wonders  of  his  art  appeared  like 
idle  mockeries.  The  eyes  of  the  reader  now  turned 
upon  him.  Still  he  continued  to  gaze,  and  to  give 
way  to  his  new  and  undefined  emotions,  till  the 
thought  of  his  intrusion  suddenly  crossed  him,  and 
his  face  crimsoned.  How  far  the  embarrassment 
may  have  been  shared  by  Rosalia  Landi  (for  she  it 
was)  was  hardly  known  to  herself,  as  the  entrance 
of  her  father  immediately  restored  her  to  her  usual 
self-possession. 

"  It  gives  us  no  common  pleasure,  signer  Mo- 
naldi,"  said  the  Advocate,  as  he  presented  him  to 
his  daughter,  "  that  we  have  this  opportunity  to 
make  some  acknowledgment  for  the  many  happy 
hours  we  owe  to  you.  I  may  add,  that  I  use  the 
epithet  in  no  indefinite  sense ;  for  when  is  the 
mind  more  innocent  than  while  it  loses  itself  in  a 
pure  work  of  genius  ?  —  and  mere  freedom  from 
evil  should  be  happiness :  but  your  art  effects 
more  —  it  unites  innocence  with  pleasure." 

"  We  owe  signer  Monaldi  much  indeed,"  said 
Rosalia,  bowing. 


MONALDI.  79 

Monaldi  had  none  of  that  spurious  modesty 
which  affects  to  shrink  from  praise  when  conscious 
of  deserving  it ;  yet  he  could  make  no  reply. 

Without  noticing  his  silence,  Landi  observed, 
that,  perhaps  he  ought  to  apologize  for  the  length 
of  his  absence.  "  And  yet,"  he  added,  turning  to 
the  pictures,  "  I  cannot  honestly  say  that  I  regret 
it,  since  it  has  left  signer  Monaldi  more  at  liberty 
to  form  a  fair  opinion ;  for  I  am  connoisseur 
enough  to  know  that  the  first  impression  of  a  pic- 
ture is  seldom  aided  by  words  —  especially  those 
of  a  fond  collector.  The  pictures  I  doubt  not 
have  fared  all  the  better  without  me." 

They  now  stood  before  the  Raffaelle,  and  the 
Advocate  waited  for  several  minutes  for  his  visiter 
to  speak  ;  but  Monaldi' s  thoughts  had  no  connec- 
tion with  his  senses ;  he  saw  nothing,  though  his 
eyes  were  apparently  fixed  on  the  picture,  but 
the  beautiful  vision  that  still  possessed  his  imagi- 
nation. 

"  Perhaps  report  may  have  overrated  it,"  at 
length  said  Landi,  in  something  like  a  tone  of  dis- 
appointment. 

"  Or  probably,"  added  Rosalia,  observing  the 
blankness  of  his  countenance,  "  our  favorite  Ma- 
donna may  not  be  one  with  signer  Monaldi." 

"  It  is  your  favorite  then  ? "  said  Monaldi,  with 


80  MONALDI. 

a  sudden  change  of  expression.  He  had  no  time 
to  think  of  the  abruptness  of  this  question  before 
Rosalia  replied,  — 

"  And  we  had  hoped  too  of  yours  ;  for  it  is  natu- 
ral to  wish  our  opinions  confirmed  by  those  who 
have  a  right  to  direct  them." 

"  Nay,"  said  Monaldi,  "  Raffaelle  is  one  whom 
criticism  can  affect  but  little  either  way.  He 
speaks  to  the  heart,  a  part  of  us  that  never  mis- 
takes a  meaning ;  and  they  who  have  one  to  un- 
derstand should  ask  nothing  in  liking  him  but  the 
pleasure  of  sympathy." 

"And  yet  there  are  many  technical  beauties," 
said  the  Advocate,  "  which  an  unpractised  eye 
needs  to  have  pointed  out." 

"  Yes  —  and  faults  too,"  answered  Monaldi ; 
"but  his  execution  makes  only  a  small  part  of 
that  by  which  he  affects  us.  But  had  he  even 
the  color  of  Titian,  or  the  magic  chiaro-scuro  of 
Correggio,  they  would  scarcely  add  to  that  sentient 
spirit  with  which  our  own  communes.  I  have 
certainly  seen  more  beautiful  faces  ;  we  sometimes 
meet  them  in  nature  —  faces  to  look  at,  and  with 
pleasure  —  but  not  to  think  of  like  this.  Besides, 
Raffaelle  does  more  than  make  us  think  of  him  ; 
he  makes  us  forget  his  deficiencies  —  or,  rather, 
supply  them." 


MONALDI.  81 

"  I  think  I  understand  you  —  when  the  heart  is 
touched.,  but  a  hint  is  enough,"  said  Rosalia. 

"Ay,"  said  the  Advocate,  smiling,  "'tis  with 
pictures  as  with  life;  only  bribe  that  invisible 
finisher  and  we  are  sure  to  reach  perfection. 
However,  since  there  is  no  other  human  way  to 
perfection  of  any  kind,  I  do  not  see  that  it  is  un- 
wise to  allow  the  illusion  —  which  certainly  ele- 
vates us  while  it  lasts ;  for  we  cannot  have  a  sense 
of  the  perfect,  though  imaginary,  while  we  admit 
ignoble  thoughts." 

"  This  is  a  great  admission  for  you,  sir,"  said 
Rosalia ;  "  't  is  the  best  apology  for  romance  I  have 
heard." 

"  Is  it  ?  Well,  child,  then  I  have  been  romantic 
myself  without  knowing  it.  —  But  the  picture  be- 
fore us  —  " 

"  I  could  not  forget  it  if  I  would,"  interrupted 
Monaldi,  with  excitement  —  "  that  single-hearted, 
that  ineffable  look  of  love  !  yet  so  pure  and  pas- 
sionless —  so  like  what  we  may  believe  of  the  love 
of  angels.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  never  before 
known  the  power  of  my  art." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  unconsciously  wandered 
to  Rosalia.  —  The  charm  was  there ;  and  his  art 
was  now  as  much  indebted  to  the  living  presence 
as  a  little  before  it  had  suffered  from  it. 


82  MONALDI. 

"  If  one  may  judge  from  his  works,"  said  Ro- 
salia, "  Raffaelle  must  have  been  a  very  amiable 
man." 

"  We  have  no  reason  to  think  otherwise,"  an- 
swered Monaldi.  "  He  at  least,  knew  how  to  be 
so :  if  he  was  not,  his  self-reproach  must  have 
been  no  small  punishment,  if  at  all  proportioned 
to  his  exquisite  perception  of  moral  beauty.  But 
he  was  all  you  believe,  according  to  the  testimony 
of  his  contemporaries,  by  whom  he  appears  to 
have  been  as  much  beloved  as  admired." 

"  I  could  wish,"  said  Rosalia,  "  that  tradition 
had  spared  us  either  more  or  less  of  the  great  au- 
thor of  that  Prophet ; "  —  they  had  turned  to  a 
cartoon  by  Michael  Angelo.  "  They  say  he  was 
morose ;  and  many  affect  to  find  in  that  the  rea- 
son why  he  does  not  touch  their  hearts.  Yet,  I 
know  not  how  it  is,  whether  he  stirs  the  heart  or 
not,  there  is  a  something  in  his  works  that  so 
lifts  one  above  our  present  world,  or  at  least, 
which  so  raises  one  above  all  ordinary  emotions, 
that  I  never  quit  the  Sistine  Chapel  without  feel- 
ing it  impossible  to  believe  any  charge  to  his  dis- 
credit." 

"  Never  believe  it !  "  said  Monaldi  with  energy. 
"  He  had  too  great  a  soul  —  too  rapt  for  an  unkind 
feeling.  If  he  did  not  often  sympathize  with  those 


MONALDI.  83 

about  him,  it  was  because  he  had  but  little  in  com- 
mon with  them.  Not  that  he  had  less  of  passion, 
but  more  of  the  intellectual.  His  heart  seems  to 
have  been  so  sublimated  by  his  imagination  that 
his  too  refined  affections  —  I  can  almost  believe  — 
sought  a  higher  sphere  —  even  that  in  which  the 
forms  of  his  pencil  seem  to  have  had  their  birth  ; 
for  they  are  neither  men  nor  women  —  at  least 
like  us  that  walk  the  earth  —  but  rather  of  a  race 
which  minds  of  a  high  order  might  call  up  when 
they  think  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  planet  Saturn. 
To  some,  perhaps,  this  may  be  jargon  —  but  not 
here  —  I  venture  to  hope."  Rosalia  bowed. 
"  Nay,  the  eloquent  confession  I  have  just  heard 
could  not  have  been  made  had  not  the  spell  of 
Michael  Angelo  been  understood  as  well  as  felt." 

"  You  have  assisted  me  to  understand  him  bet- 
ter," said  Rosalia.  "And,  if  I  do,  perhaps  I 
might  say,  that  he  makes  me  think,  instead  of 
feel.  In  other  words,  the  effect  is  not  mere  sensa- 
tion." 

Monaldi  answered  her  only  by  a  look,  but  one 
of  such  unmingled  pleasure,  as  would  have  called 
up  a  blush,  had  not  a  similar  feeling  prevented  her 
observing  it.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  been  listening 
to  the  echoes  of  his  own  mind. 

"Upon  my  word,  Rosalia,"  said  her  father,  "  I 


84  MONALDI. 

did  not  know  you  were  so  much  of  a  connoisseur ; 
't  is  quite  new  to  me,  I  assure  you." 

Rosalia  now  blushed,  for  the  compliment  made 
her  sensible  of  her  enthusiasm,  which  now  sur- 
prised herself:  she  could  not  recollect  that  she  had 
ever  before  felt  so  much  excited. 

"  Nay,  my  dear,  I  am  serious  —  and  I  need  not 
say  how  pleased.  How  you  have  escaped  the 
cant  of  the  day  I  can 't  guess.  'T  is  now  the 
fashion  to  talk  of  Michael  Angelo's  extravagance, 
of  his  want  of  truth,  and  what  not  —  as  if  truth 
were  only  in  what  we  have  seen !  This  matter-of- 
fact  philosophy  has  infected  the  age.  Let  the 
artists  look  to  it!  They  have  already  begun  to 
quarrel  with  the  Apollo  —  because  the  skin  wants 
suppleness  !  But  what  is  that  ?  —  a  mere  me- 
chanical defect.  Then  they  cavil  at  the  form  — 
those  exquisite  proportions.  And  where  would  be 
his  celestial  lightness,  his  preternatural  majesty 
without  them  ?  —  Signer  Monaldi  will  forgive  this 
strain :  perhaps,  I  should  not  hold  it  before  an 
artist." 

"  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  have  it  believed," 
answered  Monaldi,  "  that  any  artist  could  be 
found  —  I  mean  worthy  the  name  —  who  would 
refuse  to  be  instructed  because  the  lesson  does  not 
come  from  a  professor.  I,  for  one,  shall  always 


MONALDI.  85 

be  most  happy  to  become  a  listener,  especially 
where,  from  the  pledge  given,  I  shall  have  so  just 
a  hope  of  being  enlightened.  I  am  not  used  to 
complimenting;  and  signer  Landi  will  pardon 
me  if  I  add,  that  I  respect  my  art  too  much  to 
affect  a  deference  for  any  criticism  —  come  whence 
it  may  —  which  I  know  to  be  unsound ;  it  is 
founded  in  truth,  and  the  professor  degrades  it 
who  palters  with  its  principles." 

"  Perhaps  you  overrate  me,"  said  the  Advocate. 
"  But,  be  that  as  it  may,  signor  Monaldi  cannot 
do  me  a  greater  favor  than  in  making  me  a  fre- 
quent listener  to  himself." 

Monaldi  then  took  leave. 

"  So  gentle  —  yet  so  commanding !  "  said  Lan- 
di, his  eyes  still  resting  on  the  door  through  which 
his  visiter  had  passed  —  "even  lofty  —  yet  so 
wholly  free  of  pretence  and  affectation  —  not  an 
atom  of  either,  but  perfectly  natural,  even  when 
he  talked  of  the  people  of  Saturn.  Did  you  ob- 
serve how  his  face  brightened  then,  as  if  he  had 
been  actually  familiar  with  them  ?  I  can  almost 
fancy  that  we  have  been  talking  with  Raffaelle. 
He  has  not  disappointed  you,  I  am  sure." 

"No,"  replied  Rosalia,  "on  the  contrary"  — 
She  felt  provoked  with  herself  that  she  could  say 
nothing  more. 

8 


MONALDI. 


"  I  do  not  know,"  added  the  Advocate,  "  that  I 
ever  met  with  a  young  man  who  won  upon  me  so 
rapidly.  But  'tis  an  intellectual  creature  —  rarely 
to  be  met  with." 


CHAPTER  VII. 


WITH  men  of  very  vivid  imaginations  it  would 
seem  as  if  the  greater  charm  were  rather  in  the 
shadow  than  the  substance.  At  least,  it  is  true 
that  they  are  often  so  well  content  with  a  pleasing 
image  as  long  to  overlook  in  its  object  the  imme- 
diate attraction,  whether  of  mind  or  heart,  which 
first  gave  it  interest ;  nor  is  it  surprising  that, 
when  it  is  contemplated  in  the  enchanted  atmos- 
phere of  revery,  it  should  seem  to  possess  a  satisfy- 
ing charm,  to  the  exclusion,  for  the  time,  of  all 
consciousness  of  any  personal  relation  to  the  living 
original.  It  was  in  this  peculiar  atmosphere  that 
Monaldi's  spirit  was  now  reposing.  Though  he 
could  think  of  nothing  with  which  the  image  of 
Rosalia  was  not  in  some  way  or  other  blended,  and 
spent  hours  together  in  rebeholding,  and  rehearing 
e,very  particular  of  their  late  interview,  yet  he 
never  dreamed  of  asking  wherefore.  If  he  dwelt 
on  her  beauty,  her  grace,  her  voice,  they  were 
never  referred  to  any  wishes  of  his  own ;  to  him- 


88  MONALDI. 

self  they  were  as  nothing ;  indeed  his  power  of 
reflection  seemed  for  the  time  suspended ;  and  he 
yielded  to  their  influence,  feeling  only  their  pres- 
ence, wrapt  as  it  were,  passive  and  listless,  in  some 
delicious  spell. 

But  this  aimless  revery  had  a  nearer  relation  to 
himself  than  he  was  then  aware  of;  and  the  most 
imaginative  dreamer  must  awake  at  last.  Though 
availing  himself  of  Landi's  invitation,  he  had  al- 
ready several  times  met  Rosalia,  yet  seeing  her 
only  in  her  father's  presence,  their  conversation 
had  been  too  general  to  lead  to  anything  which 
might  betray  to  him  the  state  of  his  heart.  But 
he  was  now  to  see  her  on  a  nearer  view ;  being 
invited  to  pass  a  musical  evening  at  the  Advocate's. 
On  entering  the  drawing  room  he  found  the  daugh- 
ter alone.  This  was  so  unexpected,  that  he  hardly 
knew  whether  to  be  pleased  or  not.  Before  he 
entered  the  house  he  would  have  thought  of  such 
a  tete-a-tete  with  delight ;  for  he  had  always  con- 
versed freely  with  Rosalia,  and  felt  while  talking 
with  her  as  if  the  charms  of  her  discourse  made 
even  his  own  more  than  usually  eloquent,  and  he 
had  often  wished  that  the  pleasure  of  listening  and 
replying  to  her  had  been  less  interrupted  by  a  third 
person.  But  now  that  he  was  without  such  inter- 
ruption, he  suddenly  found  that  he  had  not  a  word 


MONALDI.  89 

at  command.  He  felt  as  if  something  had  bewil- 
dered him,  but,  instead  of  stopping  to  inquire 
what,  he  began  to  make  such  violent  efforts  to  feel 
at  ease  that  the  palpitation  of  his  heart  became 
almost  audible,  and  he  was  fairly  wishing  himself 
out  of  the  house,  when  Landi  made  his  appear- 
ance. The  relief  which  Monaldi  felt  at  the  fa- 
ther's entrance  might  now  have  explained  the 
mystery,  had  not  his  attention  been  diverted  by 
the  Advocate's  inquiries  concerning  the  progress 
of  his  picture.  But  he  was  not  doomed  to  remain 
long  in  ignorance. 

Skill  in  music  is  so  common  in  Italy  that  Rosa- 
lia hardly  considered  it  an  object  of  ambition  ;  she 
had  studied  it  merely  for  her  own  gratification  and 
her  father's  amusement,  and  her  execution,  though 
good,  was  far  from  being  what  a  connoisseur 
would  call  brilliant ;  but  she  had  something  bet- 
ter—  an  exquisite  voice,  and  the  power  of  en- 
thralling even  the  coldest  hearer.  Her  power 
consisted  not  in  the  mere  expression  of  concords, 
but  in  that  science  of  the  heart  which  no  written 
music  can  supply,  in  those  delicate  inflexions  which 
seem  to  imbue  sound  with  life,  conveying  thought 
and  sentiment ;  and  when  to  these  was  added  the 
accompaniment  of  her  face  —  the  tremor  of  her 


90  MONALDI. 

lips,  and  the  scarcely  perceptible  elevation  and 
depression  of  the  lids  of  her  dark,  steel-grey  eyes, 
following  the  movement  through  all  its  subtile 
undulations  —  what  unconscious  lover  could  look 
and  listen,  still  unconscious  ? 

In  order  that  his  guest  might  become  acquainted 
with  her  style,  her  father  proposed  her  playing  one 
or  two  pieces  alone,  and  she  began  with  a  passage 
from  Corelli. 

Monaldi  took  his  station  behind  her  chair  ;  but 
a  mirror  back  of  the  piano  brought  them  face  to 
face.  This  circumstance  was  too  common  to  dis- 
compose Rosalia,  and  she  went  through  the  piece 
in  her  usual  manner,  except  that  once  when  she 
caught  his  eye,  she  had,  some  how  or  other,  skipped 
a  few  notes. 

To  Monaldi,  however,  whose  embarrassment  had 
been  increasing  with  her  performance,  the  situa- 
tion became  so  uneasy  that  nothing  but  the  fear  of 
appearing  rude  prevented  his  sitting  down.  But 
when  she  began  to  sing  that  tender  air  from 
Metastasio, 

No,  non  vedrete  mai 

Cambiar  gli  affetti  mici  — 

and  he  beheld  her  devoted  look,  and  heard  her 
impassioned  tones,  it  seemed  as  if  something 
within  him  spoke  —  and  all  he  felt,  and  what  he 


MONALDI.  91 

felt,  rushed  to  his  brain.     "  I  love  her  !  "  said  he  1 
to  himself —  "  I  love  her !  " 

Monaldi  had  scarcely  made  this  discovery,  when 
he  was  called  upon  for  his  accompaniment.  He 
started,  and  taking  up  his  violin,  he  began  hurry- 
ing over  the  strings  with  such  rapidity  that  Rosalia 
was  obliged  to  request  a  slower  movement.  Then 
he  became  too  slow,  drawing  out  his  notes  as  if 
performing  a  requiem.  "  A  little  quicker,"  said 
Landi.  Monaldi  changed  his  time.  It  became 
worse ;  neither  quick,  nor  slow,  but  a  mixture  of 
both,  like  the  long  and  short  gallop  of  a  battle 
piece. 

"  Signor  Monaldi !  "  cried  the  Advocate.  Mo- 
naldi's  instrument  fell  from  his  hand. 

The  dead  silence  which  followed  this  unlucky 
crash  brought  Monaldi  to  himself,  and  the  whole 
train  of  his  blunders  came  at  once  before  him. 
He  felt  his  ears  burn,  and  stood  dumb  with  confu- 
sion. Landi,  seeing  his  distress,  kindly  endeavored 
to  laugh  it  off:  but  his  efforts  were  in  vain ;  Mo- 
naldi could  not  even  make  an  attempt  to  rally ; 
the  thought  of  having  appeared  ridiculous,  and 
appeared  so  before  Rosalia  had  quite  overcome 
him.  He  remained  for  a  moment  irresolute ;  then 
uttering  a  kind  of  half  intelligible  apology  about 
sudden  indisposition,  he  made  a  hurried  bow  and 
withdrew. 


92  MONALDI. 

"  So,"  said  Landi,  as  the  door  closed  upon  his 
guest,  "I  find  we  are  left  to  finish  the  evening 
tete-a-tete.  Well,  't  is  no  great  hardship ;  't  is 
not  the  first  time  I  shall  be  indebted  to  you  for 
my  evening's  entertainment.  Sit  down,  my  dear, 
and  play  me  something  from  Pergolesi. 

Rosalia  obeyed. 

"  What  is  it  you  are  playing  ?  " 

"  Your  favorite." 

«  Well,  go  on." 

Rosalia  continued,  but  her  father  listened  in 
vain  ;  he  could  catch  no  sound  like  Pergolesi's. 
He  heard  her  through,  however,  with  kindness 
and  patience,  and  then  very  considerately  recol- 
lected that  he  had  letters  to  write, 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


THERE  is  a  certain  region  of  the  heart  which  may 
well  be  called  the  sanctuary  of  every  individual ; 
where  even  the  humble  and  oppressed  may  (thank 
heaven)  claim  a  sovereignty ;  it  is  there  too,  where 
the  hopes  and  fears,  and  all  that  give  a  color  to 
the  outward,  may  be  said  to  dwell ;  and,  though 
in  the  pressure  of  crowds,  where  we  can  retire 
unobserved,  and  feel  ourselves  distinct,  intangible 
alike  —  if  such  be  our  pleasure  —  both  to  friend 
and  foe. 

Perhaps  there  is  nothing  more  sedulously  guard- 
ed than  this  secret  recess  in  pure  woman's  heart : 
there  indeed  it  is  a  sanctuary  —  insomuch  that,  to 
keep  it  inviolate,  it  would  sometimes  seem  as  if  she 
had  closed  it  to  herself.  Hence  it  is  that  some 
women  may  even  love  long  before  they  are  aware 
of  it.  For  in  that  place  of  mystery  is  born,  if  we 
mistake  not,  a  pure  woman's  love ;  and  hence  too 
it  may  be,  as  if  partaking  of  the  nature  of  its 
birth-place,  that  it  is  so  long  shadowy  to  the  every 


94  MONALDI. 

day  eye  — even  so  shadowy,  as  to  be  unconsciously 
nursed,  nay,  to  grow  to  maturity,  and  still  continue 
a  shadow,  till  some  magic  accident  —  a  word,  a 
look,  the  merest  trifle  —  gives  it  a  name  and  sub- 
stance. 

In  some  such  wise  was  Monaldi's  image  allowed 
to  linger,  and  linger,  in  the  heart  of  Rosalia,  until, 
from  an  undefined  shadow,  it  gradually  took  shape, 
and  was  quickened  into  life.  Long  before  they 
met  she  had  seen,  and  admired  his  productions ; 
and  when  she  saw  the  man,  his  noble  countenance 
and  unassuming  manners  more  than  answered  to 
what  she  had  imagined  him. 

Where  our  expectations  have  been  highly 
wrought,  it  is  no  small  gain  if  we  are  not  disap- 
pointed. It  was  so  in  this  instance ;  and  Monaldi 
had  scarcely  left  her  before  she  found  that  he  had 
risen  in  her  opinion  even  as  an  artist.  As  they 
became  more  acquainted  she  found  in  his  mind 
and  heart  all  that  she  had  ever  imagined,  or  asked 
for.  Yet  still  she  knew  not  that  the  image  he 
had  left  in  her  memory  was  anything  to  her  but 
a  harmonious  picture,  which  it  was  natural  to 
dwell  on,  and  to  dwell  on  with  pleasure ;  not  that 
a  transient  feeling  would  not  occasionally  whisper 
of  something  more ;  but  the  hints  were  vague,  and 
always  sure  to  be  repressed  by  a  constant  fear 


MONALDI.  95 

of — she  knew  not  what:  absence  indeed  might 
soon  have  quickened  her  apprehension;  but  she 
saw  the  original  almost  daily  ;  and  there  is  no  say- 
ing how  long  her  self-ignorance  might  have  con- 
tinued had  it  not  been  for  a  trifling  incident. 

The  more  Monaldi  dwelt  on  the  mortifying  oc- 
currence of  the  unfortunate  evening,  the  stronger 
became  his  conviction  that  Rosalia  could  not  but 
regard  him  with  something  like  contempt ;  and  so 
fully  did  this  thought  possess  him,  that  near  a  fort- 
night elapsed  before  he  had  the  courage  to  wish 
to  see  her.  But  the  wish  once  allowed  overcame 
his  fears,  and  he  hurried  away  to  the  Advocate's. 

As  he  approached  the  scene  of  his  last  visit,  the 
recollection  of  his  folly  became  too  overpowering, 
and  he  was  on  the  point  of  turning  back,  when 
the  sound  of  Rosalia's  voice  again  changed  his 
purpose.  She  was  singing  the  well-remembered 
air  from  Metastasio  —  and  he  heard  again  the 
the  same  thrilling  tones  which  had  first  revealed  to 
him  the  state  of  his  heart  —  they  now  drew  him 
onward  like  a  charmed  thing.  The  touching  sim- 
plicity with  which  the  second  stanza  begins, 

Quel  cor,  che  vi  donai, 
Piu  chieder  non  potrei  — 

could  not  be  heard  with  indifference  even  from  a 


96  MONALDI. 

less  gifted  voice  than  Rosalia's  ;  but,  given  by  her, 
and  with  that  look  of  love,  which  now  more  than 
ever  spoke  from  her  eyes  —  it  must  have  been  felt 
by  the  coldest  heart.  She  had  just  ended  the  se- 
cond line  as  Monaldi  entered  the  drawing-room, 
and  their  eyes  a  second  time  met  in  the  mirror. 
Had  an  apparition  stood  before  her,  the  sight  had 
hardly  been  more  startling.  She  felt  as  if  her 
conscious  application  of  the  words  had  been  act- 
ually detected.  Her  voice  died  on  her  lips,  and 
her  face  became  colorless  as  marble. 

"  Good  Heaven  !  Rosalia,  you  are  ill !  "  said 
Monaldi,  wholly  forgetting  himself  in  alarm. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  addressed  her 
so  familiarly,  and  the  blood  now  mounted  like  a 
crimson  cloud  to  her  forehead.  The  quick-sighted 
lover  no  longer  thought  of  illness  —  but  the 
thought  which  followed  made  him  almost  doubt  if 
he  were  awake. 

"  I  will  let  my  father  know  that  you  are  here," 
said  Rosalia,  rising ;  but  she  was  unable  to  move. 

"  But  one  moment,"  said  Monaldi,  taking  her 
hand,  though  hardly  conscious  that  he  did  so. 
"  Rosalia."  She  gently  withdrew  her  hand.  "  I 
beg  pardon,  Signora  I  should  have  said.  But  why 
affect  a  form,  the  bare  utterance  of  which  seems 
to  chill  me  ?  The  time  is  come  when  I  must  use 


MONALDI.  97 

it  no  more,  or  with  a  meaning  still  dearer.  Yes  — 
Rosalia,  I  will  speak  with  that  openness,  which 
your  own  ingenuous,  your  direct  nature  knows  not 
how  to  condemn  —  I  love  you." 

For  one  minute  Rosalia  felt  as  if  she  would  will- 
ingly have  sunk  into  the  earth.  Her  secret  had 
been  betrayed  —  this  confession  assured  her  of  it  — 
and  had  been  betrayed  by  herself. 

"  'T  is  all  a  dream  then ! "  said  Monaldi,  turning 
away.  "  But  what  a  dream  to  awake  from !  Yet 
how  I  torture  her  —  she  cannot  say  yes,  and  her 
gentle  nature  shrinks  from  saying  no.  Rosalia, 
again  pardon  me.  I  have  but  one  word  more,  and 
will  no  longer  distress  you  ;  think  no  more  of  this 
rash  avowal  —  there  is  nothing  due  to  it  —  't  was 
involuntary,  and  one,  believe  me,  which  I  could 
not  have  made  in  a  moment  of  reflection  —  for 
without  hope  —  no,  I  should  never  then  have  had 
the  presumption  to  hope  —  forgive  it  then  —  and, 
if  you  can,  forget  that  I  have  dared  to  make  so  ill 
a  return  for  the  notice  with  which  you  have  but 
too  much  honored  me." 

Rosalia  attempted  to  speak,  but  her  lips  moved 
without  sound. 

"I  ask  no  answer,"  continued  Monaldi  mourn- 
fully ;  "  I  deserve  none  —  but  rather  —  and  let  that 
be  my  atonement — that  I  leave  you,  and  forever." 


98  MONALDI. 

"  No,  no,"  said  Rosalia  in  a  voice  hardly  audi- 
ble. A  moment  of  breathless  silence  followed, 
while  she  caught  at  the  back  of  a  chair,  as  if  it 
could  impart  the  strength  which  she  needed  to  pro- 
ceed ;  but  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  restored  her 
to  herself. 

"  Monaldi  —  your  frankness  — " 

"  Can  you  forgive  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  more,  Monaldi,  I  will  return  it." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him  ;  but  her  strength 
failed  her,  and  he  caught  her  on  his  bosom. 


CHAPTER  IX. 


WITHIN  a  short  lover's  age  Monaldi  became  a 
husband  ;  and  his  happiness  would  now  have  been 
complete  could  he  have  felt  assured  that  peace  was 
again  restored  to  his  friend.  But  Maldura  had 
long  since  disappeared,  having  left  his  lodgings 
the  day  after  Monaldi's  offer ;  nor  could  the  least 
trace  of  him  be  discovered.  Monaldi  felt  the  dis- 
appointment the  more,  as  he  had  now  persuaded 
himself  that  no  melancholy,  however  wayward, 
could  long  withstand  the  sympathy  of  his  wife. 

Maldura's  absence  was  occasioned  by  a  letter 
from  Sienna,  announcing  the  death  of  a  rich  rela- 
tion, and  calling  him  there  to  take  possession  of 
his  inheritance.  A  few  years  back  this  accession 
of  wealth  would  have  filled  him  with  joy.  But 
what  is  wealth  to  the  crumbled  hopes  of  intellect- 
ual ambition  ?  It  cannot  rebuild  them.  Maldura 
received  the  intelligence  without  the  moving  a 
muscle.  Though  it  gave  no  pain,  it  could  give  no 
pleasure ;  for  he  was  no  sensualist ;  he  had  never 


100  MONALDI. 

had  but  one  vice  —  the  lust  of  praise  —  which, 
seated  in  his  brain,  seemed  like  a  voracious  reptile, 
to  swallow  up  every  thought  as  soon  as  born,  till, 
bloated  with  overgorging,  it  had  left  no  room  for 
the  growth  of  another.  To  a  vice  like  this  money 
was  useless,  except  with  a  coxcomb.  But  Maldura 
was  no  coxcomb  ;  and  he  disdained  to  beg  or 
bribe  —  even  for  praise.  Yet  he  notwithstanding 
took  possession  of  his  fortune ;  there  was  no  one 
on  earth  whom  he  loved ;  and  there  was  some  sat- 
isfaction, he  thought,  in  possessing  that  which 
j  many  wanted  ;  he  was  content  to  be  rich  because 

Cothers  were  poor. 

Having  arranged  his  affairs,  he  now  began  to 
consider  whither  to  direct  his  course.  He  had 
quitted  Rome,  as  he  believed,  forever,  and  Florence 
was  associated  with  too  many  bitter  recollections 
to  be  thought  of  again ;  but  where  to  go  he  knew 
not,  for  having  no  longer  any  object,  there  was 
nothing  to  draw  him  to  one  place  more  than  an- 
other. In  this  state  of  indecision  having  one 
evening  strolled  into  a  coffee  house,  a  stranger 
near  him  mentioned  the  name  of  Monaldi.  He 
thought  he  had  schooled  himself  to  hear  it  with 
indifference ;  yet  he  leaned  over  his  table  towards 

rthe  speaker.     The  stranger  was  giving  an  account 
to  a  person  next  him  of  Monaldi's  marriage.     Mai- 


MONALDI.  101 

dura  listened  with  little  change  of  feeling  till  he 
heard  the  name  of  Rosalia  Landi.  He  could  hear 
no  more,  but  starting  up,  rushed  out  of  the  house. 

"  I  go  to  Rome,"  said  Maldura  to  his  servant, 
as  soon  as  he  reached  home.  "  To-night,  sir  !  " 
exclaimed  the  man,  staring.  "Yes,  to-night  — 
business  calls  me."  "  Why,  't  is  almost  dark,  sir." 
"  I  want  not  your  attendance,"  said  Maldura,  im- 
patiently; "I  go  alone.  Now  see  to  my  port- 
manteau, and  order  a  horse  to  the  door."  The 
servant  obeyed,  and  Maldura  was  soon  on  his 
way. 

It  was  enough,  he  thought,  to  have  been  rejected ; 
but  to  be  rejected  for  one  whom  of  all  others  he 
most  envied,  and  therefore  most  hated  ;  to  know 
that  the  woman  he  had  once  loved,  and  the  man 
he  had  once  almost  despised,  were  now  as  one ; 
that  they  were  prosperous  and  happy ;  that  without 
title,  rank,  almost  without  family,  they  were  yet 
objects  of  the  public  gaze,  of  public  admiration ; 
and  that  go  where  he  would,  talk  with  whom  he 
would,  he  must  hear  forever  of  the  painter  Monal- 
di  and  his  beautiful  wife  ;  to  know  all  this  —  whilst 
himself  was  unknown,  miserable  —  drove  him  to 
madness.  He  uttered  no  curse  ;  he  did  not  weak- 
en by  words  the  deadly  purpose  which  lay  at  his 
heart.  What  that  was,  he  had  not  yet  defined,  in 
9* 


102  MONALDI. 

any  of  its  particulars,  even  to  himself;  yet  he  only 
waited  to  mature  it  till  he  should  find  a  proper 
instrument  to  give  it  action  ;  till  then  he  was  con- 
tented with  brooding  over  its  general  form,  and 
steadily  looking  forward  to  its  birth. 

In  this  mood  Maldura  pursued  his  journey.  He 
had  now  reached  Radicofani,  and  was  slowly  mov- 
ing up  the  mountain,  the  reins  given  to  his  horse, 
his  eyes  closed,  and  his  thoughts  busy  about  the 
future,  when  a  voice  before  him  suddenly  com- 
manded him  to  stop.  He  raised  his  eyes,  but,  it 
being  after  nightfall,  he  could  only  discern  the 
figure  of  a  horseman  standing  in  his  path,  and 
presenting  what  he  supposed  to  be  a  pistol. 

Maldura  was  wholly  unprepared  for  defence,  for 
he  had  quitted  Sienna  in  too  much  haste,  and  was 
too  intent  on  the  object  of  his  journey  to  think  of 
providing  himself  with  arms ;  besides,  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether,  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  he  would 
have  taken  the  precaution,  had  it  even  occurred  to 
him. 

"  Your  purse,  or  your  life,"  cried  the  stranger. 

"  Take  which  you  will,"  replied  Maldura,  calm- 
ly ;  "  they  are  both  to  me  worthless." 

"  Your  purse,  then,"  said  the  robber. 

Maldura  deliberately  handed  him  his  purse. 
"  Does  that  content  you  ? " 


MONALDI.  103 

"  If  it  be  gold,"  returned  the  other,  weighing  it 
in  his  hand. 

"  'T  is  all  gold,  I  assure  you." 

"Don't  lie,  friend,"  said  the  robber,  —  "the 
weight  of  your  purse  has  saved  you,  whatever  its 
contents." 

"  Maldura  never  uttered  a  lie  to  man  breathing ! 
nor  could  the  fear  of  such  a  man  as  Fialto  extort 
one  from  him."  The  robber  started.  "  I  know 
you,  Count,"  added  Maldura  ;  "  that  voice,  which 
has  ruined  so  many  women,  was  never  heard  to  be 
forgotten." 

"  You  know  me,  then  ?  "  said  the  Count,  after  a 
slight  pause.  "  Well,  sir,  you  shall  also  know  that 
the  count  Fialto  never  leaves  any  witnesses  against 
him  above  ground." 

"  Put  down  your  weapon,"  said  Maldura,  coolly. 
"  My  life  is  nothing  to  me,  as  I  have  told  you,  nor 
would  it  be  were  it  prolonged  to  a  century  ;  but  to 
you  it  may  be  worth  something.  In  short,  I  need 
your  services,  Count ;  and,  more  —  I  have  where- 
with to  pay  for  them." 

"  Is  the  devil  in  you,  Maldura,  in  good  sooth ; 
or  are  you  only  playing  the  part  of  one,  like  our 
worthy  friars  at  an  auto  da  ft?" 

"  If  you  had  said  a  hell,  I  should  answer  yes,  — 
but  I  lack  a  devil." 


104  MONALDl. 

"  And  therefore  apply  to  me  ?  " 

"  Ay  ;  you  are  the  very  one  I  have  been  wishing 
for." 

"  Thank  you  !  —  Well,  I  must  needs  be  a  very 
patient  devil  to  bear  this." 

"  Your  patience  has  served  you,  Count,  in  worse 
cases.  Have  not  I  seen  your  presence  empty  a 
coffee  house  in  ten  minutes  ?  Yet  you  avenged  it 
only  by  a  curl  of  your  lip  —  and  wisely  ;  for  none 
but  a  madman  would  have  thought  of  disputing 
tastes  with  a  score  of  stilettos.  No,  you  are  not 
the  fool,  Count,  to  hazard  either  life  or  interest  for 
a  reputation  past  mending.  I  address  you  in  your 
vocation  —  and  there 's  surely  no  wrong  done  in 
adding  the  title." 

"  You  have  certainly  the  prettiest  way,"  answered 
Fialto,  "  of  persuading  a  man  to  sign  himself  rascal. 
But  words  are  words  !  so  it  matters  little  by  what 
name  I  live.  Now,  my  good  fellow-caitiff,  what 
is  your  infernal  errand  ?  " 

"  In  a  word  then,"  said  Maldura,  "  I  have  been 
injured." 

"  Proceed." 

"  And  would  be  revenged." 

"  Well,  what  prevents  you  ?  Are  all  the  drug- 
gists dead  in  Italy  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !  I  want  assistance." 


MONALDI.  105 

"  Nay,  I  never  stab  or  poison,  except  on  my  own 
account." 

"  I  would  have  you  do  neither.'* 

"  What  then  ?  " 

"  'T  is  a  matter  that  requires  considering ;  and  I 
would  talk  it  over  with  you  more  at  leisure,  and  in 
a  place  less  exposed.  I  do  not  like  this  parleying 
in  the  dark  ;  there  may  be  ears  about." 

"  True,  you  talk  like  an  adept ;  the  grave  is  the 
only  place  free  of  them.  But  dare  you  trust  your- 
self with  me  ? " 

"  With  an  hundred  such." 

"  'T  is  more  than  I  would,"  observed  Fialto 
dryly.  "  Well  then,  follow  me." 

Though  the  infamy  of  Fialto's  character  had 
long  excluded  him  from  all  sober  society,  his  natural 
and  acquired  endowments  were  yet  too  dazzling 
not  to  obtain  him  a  ready  reception  with  the  gay 
and  young ;  and  there  were  some  even  among  the 
graver  class,  more  nice  perhaps  in  their  taste  than 
their  morals,  who,  attracted  by  the  brilliancy  and 
extraordinary  variety  of  his  conversation,  scru- 
pled not  to  court  his  acquaintance  in  private  when 
their  prudence  would  have  made  them  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  it  in  public.  Among  this  latter  num- 
ber had  been  Maldura.  But  the  fascination  of  Fi- 
alto was  not  confined  to  listeners  of  his  own  sex  ; 


106  MONALDI. 

if  his  wit  and  eloquence  made  them  content  to  be 
swindled  of  their  money,  the  uncommon  beauty  of 
his  person,  and  his  insinuating  manners  gave  him 
no  less  advantage  over  the  hearts  of  the  women. 
No  woman,  it  was  said,  could  withstand  the  witch- 
ery of  his  eye ;  and  many  a  husband  and  father, 
have  often  stolen  home  from  the  assembly  where 
chance  threw  him  in  their  way,  but  too  happy  if 
their  wives  and  daughters  had  escaped  it.  But 
among  his  many  seductions,  the  most  notorious, 
and  the  one  for  which  he  was  most  dreaded,  was 
that  of  a  Nun.  Of  this,  however,  he  was  only 
suspected,  for  no  proof  of  it  appearing,  even  the 
Holy  Office  was  obliged  to  acquit  him. 

Maldura  had  often  heard  of  Fialto's  gallantries, 
and  of  this  among  the  number;  whether  they 
were  true  or  not  he  cared  little ;  it  was  enough 
that  they  were  imputed  to  him,  that  he  was  con- 
sidered a  dangerous  man ;  and  when  he  added  to 
this  character  the  certainty  that  the  Count  had 
long  since  run  through  his  fortune,  that  he  had 
been  a  gambler,  a  swindler,  and  was  now  become 
a  robber,  he  thought  it  impossible  to  find  an  ac- 
complice better  suited  to  his  purpose. 

Such  were  his  thoughts  when,  entering  a  thick 
wood,  his  companion  desired  him  to  dismount. 
"  We  must  leave  our  horses  here,"  said  Fialto ; 


MONALDI.  107 

"  my  habitation  is  not  far  off."  They  then  struck 
out  of  the  wood,  and  began  to  ascend  a  wild  and 
barren  country. 

It  was  one  of  those  still  nights  from  which  a 
quiet  heart  seems  to  imbibe  a  peace  more  profound. 
Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring,  nor  a  cloud  to  be 
seen ;  all  nature  seemed  buried  in  slumber  —  all 
but  the  wakeful  eyes  of  heaven  —  while  the  fitful, 
uncertain  light  they  shed  upon  the  grey  rocks,  that 
here  and  there  jutted  up  from  the  black  hollows  of 
the  mountain,  appeared  to  give  them  an  undulating 
motion,  as  if  sleep  had  softened  them  into  life,  and 
they  were  heaving  with  breath.  But  the  repose  of 
the  scene  touched  not  the  turbulent  hearts  of  the 
travellers,  seeming  rather  to  wall  them  about,  and 
shutting  them  up  from  the  external  world,  to  give 
freer  play  and  bolder  daring  to  the  evil  spirits 
within.  As  Maldura  looked  out  upon  the  dark- 
ness he  felt  as  if  it  had  compressed  his  soul  to  a 
point,  as  if  his  whole  being,  once  spread  abroad, 
modifying,  and  modified  by,  the  surrounding  ele- 
ments, were  now  suddenly  gathered  back,  like  the 
rays  of  an  extinguished  lamp,  and  absorbed  in  one 
black  feeling  of  revenge.  His  libertine  companion, 
not  less  selfish,  but  more  in  humor  with  the  world, 
availed  himself  of  his  abstraction  in  maturing  the 
unfinished  schemes  which  he  hoped  to  turn  to  his 


108  MONALDI. 

future  profit  and  pleasure.  They  thus  walked  on 
in  silence,  till  winding  up  a  narrow,  broken  path, 
they  stopped  at  the  foot  of  a  steep  rock,  forming 
the  base  of  a  cliff. 

"  Our  journey  is  ended,"  said  the  Count ;  "  this 
is  my  castle  when  my  good  friends  in  the  world 
become  importunate."  Then,  taking  a  flageolet 
from  his  pocket,  he  ran  over  a  few  wild  notes, 
when  hearing  the  tinkling  of  a  sheep-bell,  appa- 
rently from  a  great  distance,  he  stopped.  "  I  am 
answered.  All  is  safe."  So  saying,  he  led  the 
way  to  a  cleft,  overhung  with  bushes,  about  mid- 
way up  the  rock,  the  projections  on  its  surface 
serving  for  steps. 

"  What  folly  is  this  ?  "  said  Maldura. 

"  Part  those  bushes,"  replied  his  companion. 

He  did  so ;  and  a  door  appearing,  they  entered 
a  cavern. 

"  'T  is  he  at  last ! "  cried  a  female  voice.  Mal- 
dura leaned  forward  to  look  at  the  speaker,  but  he 
instantly  drew  back.  She  stood  near  the  entrance 
holding  a  lamp,  and  as  the  light  fell  upon  her  large 
dark  eyes,  it  gave  them  a  brightness  so  fearfully 
contrasting  with  her  other  livid,  shrunk  features, 
that  he  thought  he  had  never  beheld  so  strange  a 
mixture  of  life  and  death. 

"  Marcellina,"  said  the  Count. 


MONALDI.  109 

"  It  is  he  !  "  she  cried,  recovering  her  breath. 
"  Thank  God  !  "  Then  instantly  closing  her  eyes 
she  added  half  to  herself.  "  But  no  —  to  Him  — 
I  am  nothing  to  him  now  ;  "  and  a  visible  tremor 
ran  over  her  limbs. 

"  Tut !  "  said  Fialto.  "  Well,  Marcellina,  and 
how  are  you  ?  " 

"  Alas,  't  is  a  long  time,"  said  she  — 
"  Since  I  have  been  here  ?    I  know  it." 
"  I  thought  you  would  never  come." 
"  Don't  be  foolish  ;  I  have  brought  you  a  visiter. 
Have  you  anything  to  entertain  him  with  ?  " 
"  Such  as  I  have  he  is  welcome  to." 
"  Well,  whatever  it  is,  Maldura  I  dare  swear 
needs  no  cardinal  compound  of  pinochii  and  truf- 
fles to  sauce  it  down,     He  's  a  poet ;  and  those  of 
his  tribe  seldom  feast,  except  on  posthumous  din- 
ners with  posterity.     But  I  beg  his  laced  cloak's 
pardon;  I  see   he    has  cut   the   chameleons  —  of 
course  now  an  ex-poet,  for  a  fat  purse  makes  but 
lean  verses." 

Had  Maldura  wavered  in  his  purpose  this  acci- 
dental allusion  to  his  blasted  hopes  would  soon 
have  fixed  it.  He  affected  to  smile,  but  his  face 
darkened  with  vengeance. 

"  What,  ashamed   of  your  trade,  man  ?  "  said 
the  Count,  observing  the  change  in   his  counte- 
10 


110  MONALDI. 

nance.  "  Well,  't  is  the  way  of  the  world  ;  we 
never  quarrel  with  what  we  are,  but  what  we 
have  been ;  and  I  can't  say  but  even  I  might  be 
ashamed  of  dicing,  could  I  once  leave  it  off.  As 
it  is,  however,  I  'm  content  to  think  it  a  very  pretty, 
gentlemanlike  vice.  But  I  see  you  are  impatient 
—  so,  we  '11  e'en  to  business." 

"  Nay,  but  you  will  first  tell  me  —  "  said  Marcel- 
Una,  making  a  timid  attempt  to  detain  her  com- 
panion. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  Fialto  ;  "  we  will  talk 
about  our  own  affairs  another  time.  My  friend,  I 
dare  say,  is  hungry  ;  this  keen  air  of  the  mountains 
whets  one's  appetite  confoundedly." 

Marcellina  sighed,  and  silently  began  to  prepare 
for  supper. 

The  travellers  in  the  mean  time  retired  to  an 
inner  apartment  in  order  to  confer  on  the  subject 
of  their  alliance.  Maldura  then  stated  his  purpose 
and  the  Count  his  conditions  ;  at  length,  after 
some  discussion,  the  affair  was  arranged  to  their 
mutual  satisfaction. 

"  Such  is  my  plan,"  concluded  Maldura ;  "  but 

should  you  do  more,  and  succeed  so  far  as  to 

cause  their  separation,  the  sum  shall  be  doubled." 

"  Nay,  if  you  wish  it,"  replied  Fialto,   "  I  will 

even  take  her  to  myself." 


MONALDI.  Ill 

"  No,"  said  Maldura,  "  force  would  only  defeat 
my  object." 

"  You  mistake  me  :  I  mean  with  her  own  con- 
sent." 

"  Impossible  !  " 

"  That 's  a  word  I  never  knew  the  meaning  of. 
Give  me  but  a  month  —  " 

"  Never.  Proud  as  you  are,  Count,  and  with 
as  much  reason  as  you  have  to  be  so,  there  is  yet 
one  woman  in  the  world  to  whom  all  your  arts, 
were  they  ten  times  more  seductive,  would  be  as 
nothing  :  that  woman  is  Rosalia." 

"  'Faith,  you  have  touched  my  pride  ;  for,  do 
you  know,  I  'm  a  purity-fancier." 
'  "Hold!  —  you  must  not  attempt  her;  for.  as 
you  would  certainly  fail,  she  would  as  certainly 
betray  you  to  her  husband.  What  then  becomes 
of  his  jealousy  ?  " 

"  So,  I  am  only  to  sin  by  implication  ?  " 

"  She  must  not  even  hear  your  name,  at  least 
as  connected  with  hers  ;  for  she  knows  you  —  as 
who  does  not  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  dare  say  she  has  heard  that  I  carry  a 
rosary  of  broken  hearts,  strung  like  beads,  about 
my  neck ;  and  that  I  count  them  every  night  be- 
fore a  taper  of  brimstone,  to  keep  good  angels  from 


112  MONALDI. 

obstructing  my  hopeful  course  to  —  where  certainly 
I  've  no  great  inclination  to  push  my  fortune." 

"  You  certainly  have  the  credit  of  a  free  chart:" 

"  The  world  does  me  too  much  honor  !  No,  I 
don't  more  than  half  deserve  it." 

"  Well,  the  half  is  enough  to  prevent  any  de- 
cent woman  putting  herself  in  your  way." 

"  Oh,  if  the  painter's  wife  is  afraid  of  me,  she  's 
mine  to  a  certainty." 

"  I  don't  question  your  logic,  Count,"  said  Mai- 
dura,  with  a  half-suppressed  sneer  ;  "  yet  you  are 
not,  perhaps,  aware  that  a  virtuous  woman  might 
avoid  a  libertine  from  other  motives  besides  fear. 
There  may  be  such  a  thing  as  antipathy" 

"  Umph  !  "  answered  Fialto,  drumming  on  the 
hilt  of  his  dagger.  "  By  the  way,  that 's  a  very 
pretty  jewel  on  your  finger." 

"  'T  is  yours,"  said  Maldura,  taking  off  the  ring 
and  presenting  it. 

"  By  no  means,"  said  the  Count,  though  some- 
what hesitating  ;  "  we  are  not  on  the  road  now. 
Besides,  you  are  my  guest  —  I  could  not  in  honor 
accept  it." 

"  Then  wear  it  as  a  pledge  of  my  good  faith." 

"  Well,  as  a  pledge.  But  what  if  this  Monaldi 
should  refuse  to  be  jealous  ?  For  I  have  known 


MONALDI.  113 

husbands  who  never  dream  of  a  gallant  till  they 
stumble  over  him." 

"  I  know  him  too  well  to  doubt  your  success. 
Wherever  he  fixes  his  affections  there  will  be  his 
whole  soul ;  and  though  not  suspicious,  yet  will 
her  constant  presence  in  his  mind  make  him  acutely 
sensitive  to  the  least  breath  that  touches  her." 

"  Say  no  more ;  I  see  he  is  most  happily  dis- 
posed to  be  miserable." 

"  Well,  do  we  now  understand  each  other  ?  " 

"  Yes.  But  you  have  given  such  a  description 
of  this  paragon,  that  I  dare  not  answer  if —  " 

"  Fialto,"  said  Maldura  sternly,  "  if  you  keep 
not  within  the  charter  —  " 

"  What  then  ? "  retorted  the  Count,  fiercely. 

«  I  _  hold  the  purse." 

"  I  bow  before  thee,  most  mighty  wizard  !  That 
little  word  would  bind  even  Love,  though  he  had 
as  many  wings,  and  were  as  strong  as  a  whirlwind. 
Only  repeat  it  when  I  become  restiff,  and  you  '11 
find  me  as  docile  as  the  pet-cat  of  an  old  maid." 

"  Then  we  are  agreed." 

"  Agreed  !  Why,  man,  thou  art  a  licensed  sor- 
cerer !  There  is  nothing  on  earth,  bearing  about 
with  it  a  full  wit  and  an  empty  stomach,  can  with- 
stand thee.  Thou  hast  the  true  charm,  to  soften, 
or  harden  hearts  at  pleasure ;  and  if  I  obey  thee 
10* 


114  MONALDI. 

not,  't  will  only  be  because  some  mightier  magician 
shall  have  conjured  me  out  of  my  appetite." 

They  now  returned  to  Marcellina,  and  sat  down 
to  supper. 

"  But  how  is  this,  Marcellina  ? "  said  Fialto  ; 
"  this  is  the  very  flask  of  Montepulciano  that  I 
brought  you  a  month  ago." 

"  I  reserved  it  for  you,"  answered  Marcellina. 

"  That  was  foolish.  You  '11  at  least  partake  of 
it  now."  She  shook  her  head.  "  Will  you  not 
join  us  ? " 

"  No,"  she  replied  ;  't  is  enough  —  "  she  would 
have  added,  "  to  see  you  — "  when  a  frown  from 
Fialto  checked  her.  But  he  could  not  check  the 
language  of  her  eyes.  She  had  taken  her  seat  at 
a  little  distance  opposite,  and,  watching  every  turn 
of  his  countenance,  seemed  to  hang  upon  it  with  a 
fondness  so  intense  and  devoted  —  as  if  in  her 
whole  mind  there  was  but  one  thought  —  that  of 
the  object  before  her.  Yet  there  was  a  gloom  in 
her  love  which  occasionally  gave  her  an  expression 
almost  awful. 

Maldura  had  marked  these  looks,  and  the  story 
of  the  nun  crossed  his  mind.  He  looked  again, 
and  the  more  he  examined  her,  the  stronger  be- 
came his  suspicion  that  she  was  the  person  ;  for 
though  her  form  was  wasted,  her  features  shrunk 


MONALDI.  115 

and  wrinkled,  and  her  hair  prematurely  gray,  the 
traces  of  their  former  beauty  were  still  too  visible 
to  leave  a  doubt  that  she  had  once  been  lovely. 

Had  any  one  but  Maldura  beheld  this  piteous 
object,  and  then  looked  on  her  betrayer,  and  sur- 
veyed his  elegant,  yet  muscular,  limbs,  his  fresh 
black  hair,  his  smooth  forehead,  the  cold  sparkle  of 
his  eye,  the  healthful  color  of  his  cheeks,  the  smile 
that  curled  his  lips,  and  the  gaiety  that  danced  like 
a  youthful  spirit  over  the  whole ;  and  then  thought 
of  his  heart — the  black  life -spring  of  all  this  se- 
ducing beauty  —  he  would  have  shrunk  from  him 
with  horror,  and  turned  for  relief  even  to  his 
wretched  companion.  But  Maldura  felt  not  the 
contrast,  or  if  he  did  it  was  only  to  confirm  him  in 
the  choice  of  his  instrument. 

Though  Fialto  scarcely  looked  towards  Marcel- 
lina,  he  could  not  help  feeling  that  her  gaze  was 
upon  him,  and  willing  to  divert  his  mind  from  cer- 
tain uneasy  thoughts  which  that  awakened,  he 
suddenly  broke  the  silence  into  which  their  meal 
had  relapsed  by  inquiring,  "  if  Maldura  had  heard 
anything  lately  of  a  certain  Cagliostro  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Maldura  ;  "  I  am  told  he  is 
now  figuring  away  in  England." 

"  He  is  certainly  the  cleverest  scoundrel  I  ever 
met  with.  But  he  is  one  of  those  unfortunate 


116  MONALDI. 

geniuses  who  come  into  the  world  at  the  wrong 
time  ;  he  should  have  been  born  two  centuries 
sooner,  when  he  might  have  had  half  Christendom 
under  his  foot." 

"  You  knew  him  then  ?  " 

"  I  met  him  once  in  Madrid.  What  devil  car- 
ried him  there  with  his  tricks  I  never  could  guess ; 
but  it  must  have  been  Beelzebub  himself  that  car- 
ried him  out  of  it ;  for  no  other  could  have  given 
him  safe  conduct  through  the  Inquisition." 

"  Can  nothing  but  the  devil,"  asked  Maldura, 
fixing  his  eye  on  the  Count  —  "  can  only  the  devil 
extricate  a  man  thence  ? "  Fialto  affected  to 
cough.  "  You  can  tell,"  continued  Maldura,  "  for, 
now  I  recollect,  there  was  once  a  foolish  story  about 
a  nun  —  " 

Marcellina  uttered  a  shriek,  and  fell  senseless. 
For  a  moment  Fialto  stood  like  one  stunned  ;  then, 
smothering  a  curse,  he  sprang  to  her  assistance. 
Maldura  offered  his  services,  but  the  Count  waving 
his  hand,  he  prudently  drew  back. 

"  Am  I  awake  ?  "  said  Marcellina,  at  length  re- 
covering. "  I  have  had  a  frightful  dream.  Ah  ! 
never  could  I  live  through  such  another.  I  thought, 
dear  Fialto,  I  thought — " 

"  You  must  not  speak,  Marcellina,"  said  the 
Count ;  "  you  are  too  weak  —  it  hurts  you." 


MONALDI.  117 

"  But  I  must  tell  you  this  to  relieve  my  mind." 

"  Nay,  you  must  not." 

"  'T  is  only  a  few  words  —  I  thought  that  a 
familiar  of  the  Inquisition  —  " 

Fialto  ground  his  teeth  with  rage,  yet  fearing  to 
trust  himself  with  speech,  he  made  a  sign  for  Mar- 
cellina  to  be  silent ;  but  she  was  too  intent  on 
her  own  thoughts  to  observe  him. 

"  Where  was  I  ?  "  she  continued  ;  "oh,  well  — 
and  the  familiar  I  thought  came  into  my  cell  —  " 

"  Peace  !  "  cried  the  Count  in  a  voice  of  thun- 
der. Marcellina,  you  Tcnow  me  —  I  will  never 
forgive  you  if  you  refuse  to  obey  me." 

"  Then  I  should  be  cursed  on  earth  too  —  you 
are  obeyed." 

"  You  must  go  to  bed,"  said  Fialto. 

She  assented  by  an  inclination  of  her  head  ;  and 
he  was  supporting  her  to  her  chamber,  when  she 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Maldura. 

"  There  !  there  he  is  again  !  "  she  screamed. 

Fialto  hurried  her  into  the  chamber,  and  closed 
the  door  after  him. 

"  It  is  so !  "  said  Maldura  to  himself.  "  He  is 
now  in  my  power,  and  shall  be  faithful." 

It  was  near  an  hour  before  Fialto  returned. 

"  How  is  she  ?  "  asked  Maldura. 

Without  answering  the  question,  Fialto  contin- 


118  MONALDI. 

ued  for  some  time  to  pace  the  cavern  with  his 
arms  folded  ;  at  length  stopping  and  slowly  raising 
his  eyes,  "  Maldura,"  said  he  — 

"  Proceed,  sir,"  quietly  returned  Maldura ;  for 
he  guessed  the  subject  of  Fialto's  thoughts,  and 
was  prepared. 

"  What  think  you  —  of  what  has  just  passed  ?  " 

"  Thoughts,  Count,  you  know  are  free ;  they 
come  unbidden,  and  stay  without  leave  ;  the  mind 
therefore  —  so  it  use  them  not  —  cannot  be  an- 
swerable for  their  birth  or  nature." 

"  You  are  metaphysical,  sir." 

"  'T  is  my  humor.  This  being  true,  he  is  but  a 
fool,  should  their  nature  be  dangerous,  who  wil- 
lingly betrays  them  to  another." 

"  I  understand  you,  sir.  But  you  should  have 
added,"  observed  Fialto,  half  drawing  his  stiletto, 
"  one  trifling  qualification  —  unless  he  find  it  his 
interest  to  betray  them." 

"  Your  dagger,  Count,"  said  Maldura,  "  would 
waste  its  edge  on  me  ;  for  I  should  not  care  if  you 
had  seduced  a  whole  convent." 

"  Fool  to  have  brought  him  here  !  "  muttered 
Fialto  to  himself. 

"  Count  Fialto,"  said  Maldura,  "  I  am  now  in 
your  power.  If  you  fear  me,  this  is  a  most  conve- 
nient place  to  bury  your  fears  in."  Fialto's  hand 


MONALDI.  119 

went  to  his  dagger.  "  If  there  be  no  other  way  to 
secure  your  peace,  strike  !  You  will  do  more  — 
you  will  rid  me  of  a  hateful  existence." 

"  Maldura,  I  will  be  plain  with  you,"  said  Fialto. 
"  You  say  right  —  you  are  in  my  power  ;  and  I 
would  bury  my  secret  with  your  corpse  on  the  spot 
where  you  stand  but  that  I  know  that  men,  good 
or  bad,  never  act  without  motive :  and  you  can 
have  none  to  betray  me  —  at  least  for  the  present. 
Should  you  have  hereafter,  why,  then,  I  shall  need 
no  prompter ;  and  my  hand  has  never  missed  whom 
my  eye  has  marked.  Then,  take  your  life ;  not  as 
a  gift  for  which  I  expect  gratitude  —  I  know  you 
too  well  to  delude  myself  with  any  such  improba- 
bility —  't  is  not  in  the  heart  which  I  have  read 
to-night  —  that  frown  is  idle,  sir  —  but  I  give  it, 
because  I  hold  it  of  no  moment  to  me." 

"  The  expression  you  were  pleased  to  notice," 
replied  Maldura  with  the  same  composure,  "  had  a 
deeper  root  than  you  can  yet  reach.  You  are  free 
to  criticise  my  morals  as  you  like,  provided  only  I 
be  not  bound  in  return  to  mend  them  by  those  of 
my  judge.  But  a  truce  to  this.  I  will  meet  you, 
Count,  on  your  own  ground,  and  with  equal  plain- 
ness. Your  secret  with  me  is  as  with  the  dead. 
My  soul  has  no  purpose  save  the  one  you  know  — 
no  pleasure,  no  profit  in  anything  which  man  could 


120  MONALDI. 

name  to  me  ;  what  then  should  I  gain  by  your 
death  ?  or  the  death  of  all  the  libertines  in  the . 
world  ?  —  Nothing.  I  should  still  be  the  same  — 
the  same  human  weed,  fastened  to  the  same  spot, 
and  still  hating  its  own  rankness." 

"  I  do  trust  you,"  said  the  Count,  extending  his 
hand.  "  So,  good  night.  You  will  find  a  pallet 
in  that  recess." 


CHAPTER  X. 


NOTHING  more  occurring,  the  confederates  pro- 
ceeded the  next  morning  on  their  way  to  Rome, 
taking  care,  however,  always  to  separate  when 
they  came  to  a  town.  According  to  this  plan, 
when  they  reached  Viterbo,  Maldura  entered  and 
quitted  it  alone,  and  had  proceeded  some  miles 
before  Fialto  overtook  him. 

"  We  are  in  luck,"  said  the  latter,  as  he  rejoined 
his  companion,  "I  have  seen  Monaldi;  he  was 
pointed  out  to  me  as  he  was  getting  into  a  carriage 
just  as  I  entered  the  inn  yard.  It  seems  he  is  on 
his  way  to  Florence,  to  see  to  the  putting  up  of 
some  picture  he  has  painted  for  a  church  there. 
So  said  the  inn-keeper." 

"  But  his  wife,"  interrupted  Maldura  — 

"  There  was  no  lady  with  him.  And  he  will  be 
absent  a  fortnight  at  least.  Rare !  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Maldura,  "  if  she  remain  at  home. 
A  fortnight,  did  you  say  ?  That 's  time  enough  "  — 


122  MONALDI. 

"  Ay,  for  any  woman  to  transfer  her  affections  — 
at  least  in  the  calculation  of  a  jealous  husband." 

"  Well  sir,  let  us  on." 

On  their  arrival  in  Rome,  Maldura  took  lodgings 
in  a  part  of  the  city  remote  from  his  former  abode, 
and  where  from  its  obscurity  he  thought  he  was 
least  likely  to  fall  in  with  Monaldi,  whom  he  was 
determined  to  avoid  unless  some  circumstance 
should  occur  to  render  their  meeting  necessary. 
Fialto  established  himself  nearer  the  scene  of  ac- 
tion, and  began  his  operations  by  making  it  appear 
as  if  he  haunted  the  painter's  dwelling ;  passing 
and  repassing  it  a  dozen  times  a  day ;  sometimes 
stopping  before  it  under  one  pretence  or  another, 
then  giving  a  side  glance  towards  the  windows, 
and  suddenly  turning  another  way  if  any  one 
chanced  to  observe  him,  and  sometimes  curveting 
to  and  fro  for  several  minutes  on  a  restiff  horse, 
and  occasionally  affecting  to  take  something  from 
his  pocket  and  throw  it  into  the  court.  All  this 
was  done  to  excite  the  attention  of  the  neighbors ; 
nor  was  it  long  before  it  succeeded.  The  first 
effect,  however,  was  that  of  mere  surprise  to  see 
him  so  often  in  the  same  street ;  generally  ending 
with  simple  exclamations,  as,  "  Oh,  here 's  the 
same  gentleman"  or  "here  he  comes  again!" 
Then  they  began  to  wonder  what  brought  him 


MONALDI.  123 

there.  But  when  they  remembered  his  frequent 
glances  at  Monaldi's  house,  the  mystery  was  ex- 
plained ;  the  transition  was  but  too  natural  from 
the  handsome  cavalier  to  the  painter's  wife. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  Monaldi  re- 
turned. His  arrival  was  accordingly  noted  by  his 
neighbors  with  as  many  shrugs  and  winks  as  are 
usual  in  similar  cases.  But  there  was  one  amongst 
them  to  whom  it  seemed  to  afford  particular  pleas- 
ure ;  for  now,  as  he  thought,  was  a  fair  opportunity 
to  give  play  to  his  resentment  in  many  a  good 
"fling"  at  the  great  man.  This  person,  whom 
Monaldi  had  unconsciously  offended,  was  a  worker 
in  mosaic,  and  kept  a  shop  directly  opposite  him. 
The  cause  of  the  offence  was  the  negative  one  of 
sometimes  being  silent  when  Romero  expected  to 
be  praised  ;  not  that  Monaldi  had  ever  denied  him 
praise  when  he  thought  it  due,  for  he  was  too  con- 
scientious to  withhold  it  even  from  an  enemy,  but 
only  that  he  had  fallen  short  of  the  exhorbitant 
measure  which  the  other  demanded ;  an  injury 
often  more  important  than  one  that  is  positive,  for 
while  the  latter  is  bounded  by  its  word  or  deed, 
the  former  is  limited  only  by  the  vanity  of  the  in- 
jured. 

"  Good  morning,  signor  Monaldi,"  said  Romero, . 
"  so,  you    have  been  a  long  journey.      Ay,  't  is 
well  you  are  come  back." 


124  MONALDI. 

This  speech  would  hardly  have  been  noticed  but 
for  its  peculiar  emphasis. 

«  Well,  sir  ?  "  repeated  Monaldi,  «  why  well  1  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  —  only  —  a  man,  you  know,  is 
always  better  at  home  —  especially  "  — 

«  Sir." 

"  Umph  !  —  Don't  it  look  like  rain  ?  Carluccio, 
why  don't  you  attend  to  the  shop  ? " 

"  You  were  observing,"  said  Monaldi. 

"  Oh,  nothing  of  consequence  —  at  least  to  me," 
replied  Romero,  closing  his  shop  door.  "  Good 
day,  sir ;  I  must  see  to  my  customers." 

"  *T  is  of  a  piece,"  thought  Monaldi,  "  with  his 
usual  forwardness ;  he  wants  to  talk  and  has  no- 
thing to  say."  And  the  speech  and  Romero 
passed  from  his  mind. 

Nothing  more  occurred  for  several  days,  till  one 
morning,  as  Monaldi  was  going  out,  he  saw  a  man 
standing  at  the  entrance  of  his  gateway.  As  he 
approached,  the  stranger  suddenly  drew  his  hat 
over  his  eyes,  and  precipitately  retreated  ;  not  how- 
ever, before  the  former  had  distinctly  seen  his  face. 
Monaldi  quickened  his  pace  in  order  to  overtake 
him,  but  on  entering  the  street,  the  man  was  lost 
in  the  crowd ;  and  before  he  had  time  to  form  any 
conjecture  on  the  incident,  his  attention  was  di- 
verted by  a  message  from  the  pope,  requiring  his 
attendance. 


MONALDI.  125 

But  going  the  next  day  to  a  window  which  over- 
looked Romero's  shop,  he  observed  the  same  per- 
son standing  at  the  door,  and  apparently  convers- 
ing by  signs  with  some  one  in  his  own  house. 
The  recognition,  even  connected  with  such  a  cir- 
cumstance, might  have  passed  off  without  a  thought, 
had  not  the  stranger  on  catching  his  eye  again 
drawn  his  hat  over  his  face  and  hastily  entered  the 
shop.  This  last  action  gave  an  importance  to  the 
other  which  he  could  not  overlook.  And  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  Monaldi  became  conscious  of 
suspicion  ;  but  of  whom,  or  of  what,  he  could  not 
tell.  He  felt  that  the  stranger  was  somehow  or 
other  connected  with  him  or  his  household,  and 
the  sensations  excited  by  the  thought  became  still 
more  painful  from  its  being  undefined. 

Who  the  man  was  perplexed  him.  "  Yet  might 
it  not  be  some  one  he  had  formerly  known  ?  No ; 
he  could  not  recollect  meeting  him  before  the  day 
preceding.  Who  was  he,  then?  —  Perhaps  Ro- 
mero could  inform  him.  But  Romero  was  prying 
and  familiar  ;  and  should  he  ask  the  motive  for  the 
inquiry  —  what  answer  could  be  given  ?  No, 
he  would  not  question  him.  Yet  the  more  he 
thought  of  it,  the  more  he  felt  inclined  to  apply  to 
him  ;  but  something — he  knew  not  what — always 
checked  him. 


126  MONALDI. 

In  this  mood  he  continued  to  pace  the  room  for 
a  considerable  time,  when,  going  again  to  the  win- 
dow, he  saw  the  stranger  come  out  of  the  shop, 
and  again  make  a  sign  as  he  thought,  toward  his 
house.  "  I  will  know  who  he  is."  But  before  he 
had  reached  the  street,  the  stranger  was  gone. 

For  near  a  fortnight  after  Monaldi  observed  the 
same  person  almost  daily  hanging  about  the  neigh- 
borhood, and  always  betraying  the  same  solicitude 
to  avoid  him.  Still  no  opportunity  offered  of 
learning  who  he  was.  Wearied  at  length  with 
fruitless  conjectures,  and  willing  to  divert  his  mind 
with  other  thoughts,  he  was  one  evening  prevailed 
on  to  accompany  his  father-in-law,  to  see  a  new 
opera.  Rosalia  had  also  been  invited,  but  she  de- 
clined on  account  of  a  headache. 

They  had  been  but  a  little  while  in  the  theatre, 
when  Landi  directed  Monaldi's  attention  to  a  box 
opposite. 

"  Do  you  observe  that  gay  cavalier  ?  " 

"Which?"  asked  Monaldi. 

"  He  that  has  just  entered,  with  the  embroidered 
waistcoat." 

Monaldi  looked,  and  beheld  the  stranger.  "  Who 
is  he?  "  he  asked  quickly. 

"  'T  is  the  notorious  count  Fialto." 

"  Fialto !  "  repeated  Monaldi. 


MONALDI.  127 

"  What  makes  you  start  so  ?  "  said  Landi. 

"  N  -  nothing." 

"  But  you  are  ill  ?  " 

«No — not  at  all,"  answered  Monaldi,  endeav- 
oring to  assume  a  cheerful  look  — "  quite  well,  I 
assure  you." 

"  I  fear  you  labor  too  much,"  said  Landi. 

"  Perhaps  so.  But  go  on  — you  were  speaking 
of  this  Count." 

"  I  pointed  him  out  to  you,"  continued  Landi, 
"  because  I  think  him  an  anomaly  in  physiognomy. 
To  look  at  his  noble  countenance,  no  one,  ignorant 
of  his  character,  would  for  a  moment  suspect  that 
such  a  face  could  possibly  belong  to  anything  vi- 
cious ;  and  yet,  were  all  the  wickedness  in  this 
house  extracted  from  the  hearts  of  each  individual, 
I  verily  believe  it  would  fall  short  in  the  gross  of 
that  in  his." 

"  You  seem  to  know  him  ?  " 

"  Not  personally.  But  his  character  is  no  secret. 
There  is  no  crime  of  which  he  is  not  capable." 

"  I  have  heard  as  much." 

"  But  his  deadliest  sins  are  against  those  of  the 
other  sex.  The  catalogue  of  his  seductions  would 
appal  any  common  libertine." 

"  He  seems  indeed  no  common  one." 

"  Nay,  his  person,  of  itself,  is  a  mere  subordi- 


128  MONALDI. 

nate  —  but  a  fine  statue,  on  which  many  women 
might  gaze  with  impunity ;  't  is  only  when  animated 
by  his  master-mind  —  when  his  devil's  heart  rises 
to  his  angel's  tongue,  that  it  becomes  an  object  of 
worship  —  fatal  to  the  rash  woman  who  shall  then 
dare  to  look  and  listen." 

Monaldi  knew  not  why,  but  he  felt,  while  his 
father-in-law  was  speaking,  as  if  all  his  blood  were 
beating  at  his  heart.  But  the  opera  was  now  be- 
gun, and  the  exquisite  tones  of  Crescentini  soon 
made  him  forget  that  there  was  such  a  being  as 
Fialto  in  the  world. 

The  first  act  passed  off  without  anything  worth 
noting,  except  that  Monaldi's  attention  was  again 
drawn  towards  the  opposite  box  by  the  entrance  of 
a  person  with  a  letter  for  Fialto,  who,  glancing 
over  it  hastily,  immediately  withdrew  ;  but  this 
excited  no  sensation  in  Monaldi  except  that  of 
pleasure  in  the  other's  absence,  which  left  him  at 
ease  to  enjoy  the  remainder  of  the  opera. 

There  are  few  cares  which  do  not  yield  for  a 
time  to  the  influence  of  fine  music.  Monaldi  had 
felt  it,  and  he  was  returning  homeward  full  of  happy 
thoughts,  when  arriving  within  a  few  paces  of  his 
house,  he  perceived  a  person  lurking  about  his 
gateway.  The  impulse  of  the  moment  determined 
him  to  stop ;  and  being  just  then  under  a  lamp 


HONALDI.  129 

which  hung  before  the  image  of  a  saint,  he  turned 
his  back  towards  it,  and  muffled  his  face  in  his 
cloak.  He  had  scarcely  done  so  when  the  person 
passed  him.  Monaldi  was  thunder-struck  :  there 
could  be  no  mistake  —  the  light  had  fallen  full  on 
the  other's  face  —  it  was  Fialto. 

There  is  a  little  cloud  often  described  by  travel- 
lers, and  well  known  on  the  Indian  seas,  which  at 
first  appears  like  a  dark  speck  in  the  horizon  ;  as 
it  rises  its  hue  deepens,  and  its  size  increases ;  yet 
the  approach  of  it  is  gradual,  and  the  air  mean- 
while is  soft  and  motionless ;  but  while  the  inex- 
perienced mariner  is  perhaps  regarding  it  as  a  mere 
matter  of  curiosity,  his  sails  unbent,  and  loosely 
hanging  to  the  masts  —  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
it  seems  to  leap  upon  the  ship  —  and,  in  a  moment 
more,  sails,  masts,  and  all,  are  swept  by  the  board. 
With  like  desolation  did  this  little  incident  smite 
the  heart  of  Monaldi :  he  felt  as  if  some  sudden 
calamity  had  laid  his  peace  in  ruins  ;  yet  he  could 
give  it  no  distinct  shape,  nor  even  comprehend  the 
evil  that  would  follow.  He  knew  not  with  what, 
or  with  whom  to  connect  Fialto's  visit ;  but  that 
Fialto  had  been  in  his  house  seemed  almost  beyond 
doubt ;  he  had  not  indeed  seen  him  come  out  of 
it  —  yet  why  was  he  hanging  about  it  at  this  hour  ? 
"  But  how  did  this  appear  to  concern  himself? " 


130  MONALDI. 

He  had  scarcely  asked  the  question,  when  twenty 
circumstances  occurred  in  answer  ;  but  chiefly  by 
the  Count's  uniform  solicitude  to  avoid  him ;  his 
confusion  when  detected  gazing  at  the  house,  his 
disappearance  from  the  theatre  soon  after  Monal- 
di's  entrance ;  his  absence  during  the  rest  of  the 
evening,  though  it  was  a  new  play  ;  and  his  sudden 
reappearance  in  this  place,  and  at  such  a  time ; 
these  were  too  evident  in  their  bearing  to  allow  of 
any  misapprehension,  and  Monaldi  was  forced  to 
admit  that  Fialto's  purpose,  whatever  it  was,  had, 
in  some  way  or  other,  relation  to  himself.  There 
was  an  obscurity  in  this  conclusion  which  thick- 
ened on  his  brain  like  an  Egyptian  darkness ;  not 
a  thought  could  pierce  it ;  even  the  avenues  to 
conjecture  were  closed  ;  he  could  only  feel  that  he 
was  surrounded  by  a  thing  impenetrable,  and  he 
had  no  resource  but  to  wait  till  some  further  cir- 
cumstance should  give  form  and  direction  to  his 
undefined  misgivings.  Nor  was  he  long  without 
one.  The  closing  of  a  window  above  roused  him 
from  his  reverie.  He  looked  up  and  saw  a  light 
in  his  wife's  chamber,  and  a  female  figure  passing 
from  the  window.  Rosalia  and  Fialto  now  met  in 
his  thoughts. 

There  is  no  act  of  the  mind  more  abhorrent  to 
a  delicate  man  than  that  of  admitting  a  criminating 


MONALDI.  131 

thought  against  an  object  once  held  sacred ;  and 
should  a  hundred  circumstances  arise  to  disturb, 
and  excite  him  to  suspicion,  it  will  at  first  be  gen- 
eral, and  fall  anywhere,  rather  than  on  her  he 
loves ;  for  though  it  is  the  connection  of  these  cir- 
cumstances with  her — which  the  mind  feds,  with- 
out acknowledging  —  that  makes  his  misery  ;  it  is 
only  when  their  direction  is  too  plain  to  be  mis- 
taken that  he  suffers  himself  to  perceive  its  object. 
So  was  it  with  Monaldi :  the  devotedness  of  his 
love  had  invested  his  wife  with  a  charm  which  had 
hitherto  kept  her  name  and  her  image  far  from  the 
troubled  circle  of  his  thoughts.  But  Fialto's  man- 
ner—  the  finding  him  so  near  his  house  —  the 
hour  —  the  light  in  his  own  bed-chamber  —  the  fe- 
male at  the  window  — were  all  too  distinctly  joined 
in  his  mind,  not  to  mark  the  object  of  suspicion. 
The  agony  which  followed  was  unutterable  ;  —  but 
it  could  not  continue  long ;  for  Monaldi  was  natu- 
rally confiding ;  then  he  revolted  at  injustice ;  and 
to  whom,  if  so,  should  he  be  unjust  ?  The  ques- 
tion drove  him  from  self,  to  one  infinitely  dearer ; 
and  his  generous  nature  now  pleaded  for  her  with 
all  its  energy.  "  Did  he  not  know  her  ?  —  as  well 
—  yes,  as  well  as  himself.  Her  whole  heart  had 
been  open  to  him  ;  he  had  seen  it  daily,  from  the 
day  of  their  union  —  and  he  had  found  it  pure  ; 


132  MONALDI. 

he  was  no  dotard  —  intensely  as  he  loved  —  and 
he  must  have  seen  the  stain  had  there  been  one  — 
no  artifice,  no  hypocrisy  could  have  hidden  it  so 
long.  And  on  what  did  he  ground  his  suspicion  ? 
On  a  coincidence  which  a  hundred  accidents  might 
innocently  occasion."  He  almost  hated  himself 
as  the  word  occurred  to  him.  He  then  remem- 
bered that  he  had  left  his  wife  unwell ;  and  it  was 
very  natural  that  she  should  retire  to  rest  early ; 
indeed  it  would  have  been  more  strange  if  she 
had  waited  his  return.  This  last  thought  reas- 
sured him,  and  he  entered  the  house.  His  confi- 
dence, however,  was  hardly  restored  when  a  con- 
tradictory circumstance  again  staggered  it;  he 
found  his  wife  sitting  in  the  very  room  where  he 
had  left  her.  "  What,  here  !  Has  she  then  heard 
me  enter  ?  —  and  comes  she  down  now  to  make 
me  believe  that  she  has  passed  the  whole  evening 
here  ? " 

"  You  are  home  early,"  observed  Rosalia,  "  I 
hope  you  have  been  entertained." 

"Perhaps  too  early,"  replied  Monaldi,  hesita- 
ting, and  almost  shuddering  at  the  strangeness  of 
his  own  voice ;  "  you  seem  surprised.  What  if  / 
should  be  so  at  finding  you  here  1 " 

"  Me  ?  Why  so  ?  Oh,  I  suppose  you  thought 
my  head-ache  would  have  sent  me  to  bed.  But  it 
is  quite  gone  off." 


MONALDI.  133 

"  Indeed  !  and  pray  —  who  has  cured  it?  " 

The  question  seemed  forced  from  him  by  tor- 
ture, and  his  utterance  was  so  thick  that  Rosalia 
asked  what  he  said. 

"  Your  head  ache.     I  asked  who  has  cured  it." 

"  Oh,  my  old  doctor  —  nature." 

"  Rosalia  !  "  said  Monaldi. 

"  What  ?  but  what  disturbs  you  ?  " 

"  Nay,  what  should  ]  " 

"  I  am  sure  I  know  not." 

"  If  you  know  not  —  but  I  'm  afraid  you  have 
passed  but  a  dull  evening  alone." 

"  Oh,  no,  I  have  been  amusing  myself — if  it 
may  be  called  amusement  to  have  one's  flesh 
creep  —  with  Dante.  I  had  just  finished  the  In- 
ferno as  you  came  in." 

"As  I  came  in?  The  Inferno,  I  must  own, 
seems  hardly  a  book  of  entertainment  for  a  lady's 
bed-chamber." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Or  will  not." 

"  Dear  husband  !  "  said  Rosalia,  looking  up  with 
surprise,  and  a  feeling  as  yet  new  to  her,  "  you 
talk  in  riddles." 

"  Is  it  a  riddle  to  ask  why  you  should  choose  to 
read  in  your  chamber  ?  For  there  you  were  when 
I  entered." 

12 


134  MONALDI. 

"  Who,  I  ?  No  —  I  have  not  been  up  stairs  this 
evening." 

"A  lie!"  groaned  Monaldi,  turning  from  her 
with  an  agony  that  would  not  be  suppressed. 
"  Oh,  misery !  't  is  then  too  —  too  —  " 

A  maid  servant  at  that  instant  came  in  to  tell 
her  mistress  that,  as  the  night  was  damp,  she  had 
shut  her  chamber  windows,  though  without  orders. 

"  You  have  done  well,"  said  Rosalia. 

"  Thank  God ! "  said  Monaldi,  as  he  heard 
this  explanation.  "  Away  —  away  forever,  infer- 
nal thoughts ! " 

Monaldi's  emotion  had  not  escaped  his  wife,  but 
the  entrance  of  the  servant  prevented  her  hearing 
his  words.  His  altered  expression  now  struck  her. 
"  Surely  I  have  been  dreaming,"  said  Rosalia. 

"  Of  nothing  bad,  I  hope,  my  love,"  said  Mo- 
naldi, now  like  another  being,  and  gently  drawing 
her  towards  him  ;  "_for  your  dreams  —  if  that 
dreams  are  pictures  of  the  mind  —  should  be  like 
those  of  angels." 

"  I  know  not  of  what,"  answered  Rosalia,  "  but 
it  was  something  very  painful.  I  thought  you 
seemed  unhappy.  Was  it  so  ?  " 

"  Never  was  I  less  so  than  now.  Less  so  !  that 's 
a  poor  negative.  No,  my  Rosalia,  I  feel  a  present, 
a  positive,  tangible  happiness,  which  gives  the  lie 


MONALDI.  135 

to  all  who  hold  that  we  enjoy  it  only  in  the  past 
and  future.  My  heart  is  full ;  so  full,  that  I  ask 
nothing  of  time  —  of  anything  but  thee  —  and  to 
hear  thee,  to  look  upon  thee." 

"  Oh,  Monaldi,  I  am  blest  above  women  ! " 

"  And  dost  thou  think  so  ? " 

"  At  least  I  know  not  how  I  could  be  happier. 
For  what  more  could  I  ask,  with  such  a  husband  ?  " 

"  Or  I,  with  such  a  wife  ?  Amen  !  with  my 
whole  soul." 

"  I  have  sometimes  thought,"  said  Rosalia,  "  and 
I  hope  without  pride,  that  the  very  bad  could  not 
know  such  bliss  ;  nay,  a  love,  like  mine.  For, 
could  I  love  thee  so,  pure  and  exalted  as  thou  art, 
did  I  love  evil  ?  I  could  not :  I  should  then  love 
myself,  and  thee  only  as  ministering  to  my  selfish^ 
ness.  No  !  the  love  I  bear  thee  is  but  the  efflu- 
ence of  thy  virtues  given  back  to  thyself ;  and  it 
seems  to  elevate  me ;  to  refine  my  heart  for  the  love 
of  Him  who  is  purest,  best  —  who  is  Goodness," 


CHAPTER   XI. 


A  FEW  days  after  this,  Monaldi  received  a  message 
from  the  worker  in  mosaic,  requesting  to  speak 
with  him. 

"  You  will  excuse  my  freedom,"  said  Romero, 
as  Monaldi  entered  the  shop,  "  but  I  wished  to 
have  your  opinion  of  a  work  I  have  lately  begun. 
You  may  give  me  a  hint,  perhaps,  that  will  be  of 
service.  'T  is  a  miniature  copy  of  that  Magdalen 
by  Guido." 

Monaldi  examined  the  copy,  and  comparing  it 
with  the  original,  commended  the  general  fidelity, 
but  pointed  out  several  parts  which  he  thought 
might  be  improved. 

Romero  thanked  him  with  an  air  of  pique,  and 
observed,  "  I  should  not  have  troubled  you  for  your 
opinion,  had  not  the  work  been  for  a  friend  of 
yours  —  the  count  Fialto." 

"  My  friend  !  "  said  Monaldi,  with  some  sur- 
prise—  "the  most You  are  mistaken,  sir  ; 

I  have  no  acquaintance  with  him.5' 


MONALDI.  137 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  replied  Romero  ;  "  but  I  con- 
cluded that  he  was  so  from  seeing  him  come  out 
of  your  house." 

"  My  house  !  "  repeated  Monaldi. 

"  Or,  perhaps  't  was  another  person  ;  for  since 
you  don't  know  him  no  doubt  I  was  mistaken. 
Indeed  now,  I  rather  wonder  how  I  came  to  sup- 
pose him  your  friend  ;  for  the  Count's  character  is 
none  of  the  best.  But  that 's  nothing  to  me,  or  he 
should  not  be  so  free  of  my  shop ;  for  he  comes 
here  three  or  four  times  a  week  to  see  how  my 
work  gets  on  ;  in  faith,  so  often,  that,  to  say  the 
truth,  had  I  a  pretty  daughter,  or — a  wife,  I 
should  n  't  much  relish  it." 

Monaldi  looked  up  at  the  word  wife,  and  saw  a 
meaning  in  Romero's  eye  not  to  be  mistaken.  But 
the  look  was  unnecessary ;  his  shaft  had  already 
reached  the  mark. 

"  Well,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  signer  Mo- 
naldi," concluded  Romero,  returning  to  his  work, 
and  shall  be  careful  in  future  how  I  call  the  Count 
your  friend." 

When  Monaldi  left  the  shop  the  houses  seemed 
to  reel  and  the  ground  to  bend  beneath  him.  A 
sickening  faintness  had  come  over  him,  and  he  felt 
as  if  it  were  impossible  to  cross  the  street ;  but, 
making  an  effort,  he  reached  his  gateway,  and 


138  MONALDI. 

leaned  against  it  for  support.  His  strength,  how- 
ever, soon  returned ;  sooner  than  his  memory,  for 
it  was  some  time  before  he  could  fix  on  the  cause 
of  his  agitation,  only  recollecting  that  some  dread- 
ful truth  had  suddenly  glanced  on  his  brain,  and 
as  quickly  vanished.  But  a  slight  incident  will 
often  do  more  in  recovering  what  is  lost  in  the 
mind  than  its  most  intense  efforts.  Rosalia  was 
singing  a  new  polacca,  which  was  then  popular, 
but  of  which  Monaldi  had  often  expressed  his  dis- 
like. It  was  the  only  instance  in  which  their  tastes 
differed.  This  difference,  at  another  time  too 
slight  even  to  be  noticed,  now  startled  his  imagina- 
tion. The  hair-line  which  divided  them  now 
opened  to  a  frightful  chasm.  He  turned  for  a 
moment  towards  the  court  of  his  house,  then,  press- 
ing his  hand  to  his  brain,  rushed  from  the  gate. 
Whither  he  was  going  he  knew  not ;  yet  it  seemed 
as  if  motion  gave  him  the  power  of  enduring  what 
he  could  not  bear  at  rest ;  and  he  continued  to 
traverse  street  after  street,  till,  quitting  the  city, 
he  had  reached  Ponte  Molle,  where,  exhausted  by 
heat  and  fatigue,  he  was  at  length  compelled  to 
stop. 

It  was  one  of  those  evenings  never  to  be  forgot- 
ten by  a  painter  —  but  one  too  which  must  come 
upon  him  in  misery  as  a  gorgeous  mockery.  The 


MONALDI.  139 

sun  was  yet  up,  and  resting  on  the  highest  peak 
of  a  ridge  of  mountain-shaped  clouds,  that  seemed 
to  make  a  part  of  the  distance  ;  suddenly  he  dis- 
appeared, and  the  landscape  was  overspread  with 
a  cold,  lurid  hue  ;  then,  as  if  molten  in  a  furnace, 
the  fictitious  mountains  began  to  glow  ;  in  a  mo- 
ment more  they  tumbled  asunder ;  in  another  he 
was  seen  again,  piercing  their  fragments,  and  dart- 
ing his  shafts  to  the  remotest  east,  till,  reaching  the 
horizon,  he  appeared  to  recall  them,  and  with  a 
parting  flash  to  wrap  the  whole  heavens  in  flame. 

Monaldi  groaned  aloud.  "  No,  thou  art  nothing 
to  me  now,  thou  glorious  sun  —  nothing.  To  me 
thou  art  dead,  buried  —  and  forever,  —  in  her 
darkness ;  her's,  whose  own  glory  once  made  me 
to  love  thee  ;  who  clothed  me  with  a  brightness 
even  more  than  thine ;  who  followed  me  like  a 
spirit,  in  sleep  even,  visiting  my  dreams,  as  if  to 
fill  up  the  blank  of  night  —  to  give  a  continuous 
splendor  to  my  existence.  Oh,  idiot,  driveller !  so 
to  cling  to  a  shadow  —  a  cheat  of  the  senses  !  — 
What  is  she  to  me  now  ?  what  can  she  ever  be  ? 
—  she  that  is  —  that  ever  was  "  —  He  could 
not  utter  the  word. 

A  desolate  vacancy  now  spread  over  him,  and, 
leaning  over  the  bridge,  he  seemed  to  lose  himself 
in  the  deepening  gloom  of  the  scene,  till  the  black 


140  MONALDI. 

river  that  moved  beneath  him  appeared  almost  a 
part  of  his  mind,  and  its  imageless  waters  but  the 
visible  current  of  his  own  dark  thoughts. 

But  the  mind  unused  to  suffering  has  a  difficulty 
in  admitting  calamity  not  to  be  easily  overcome  ; 
one  evidence  is  seldom  enough  ;  for  though  it  may 
perplex  and  torture  for  a  time,  the  very  sense  of 
pain  will  soon  force  the  faculties  to  return  to  their 
wonted  action,  to  pursue  again  their  plans  of  peace 
and  hope. 

Misery  was  new  to  Monaldi ;  he  had  now  en- 
dured it  for  more  than  two  hours  ;  and  the  intense 
longing  for  relief  brought  on  a  reaction.  "  No," 
said  he,  starting  up,  "  some  fiend  has  tempted  me, 
and  I  have  mocked  myself  with  monsters  only  in 
my  brain  —  she  is  pure  —  she  must  be !  " 


CHAPTER  XII. 


BY  the  time  Monaldi  reached  home,  he  had  nearly 
brought  himself  to  believe  that  all  he  had  suffered 
was  from  mere  delusion. 

But  he  had  scarcely  crossed  his  threshold  before 
the  violent  beating  of  his  heart  warned  him  of  a 
relapse ;  and  he  had  stopped,  with  his  hand  still 
resting  on  the  latch  of  the  door  of  the  anteroom, 
to  collect  his  thoughts,  when  his  wife,  who  was 
advancing  on  the  other  side,  and  mistaking  him 
for  a  servant,  bade  him  come  in. 

"  Mercy  !  "  cried  Rosalia,  drawing  back  as  he 
entered,  "  how  you  frightened  me." 

Her  surprise  at  his  sudden  appearance,  though 
perfectly  natural,  instantly  struck  on  the  troubled 
brain  of  her  husband  as  the  alarm  of  guilt,  and  the 
worst  thought  —  that  perhaps  he  had  supplanted 
her  gallant — now  crossed  him.  "  Ay,"  said  he, 
with  a  tone  of  bitterness,  "'tis  even  //  " 

The  change  in  his  manner  now  really  alarmed 


142  MONALDI. 

her.  "  Good  heaven  !  Monaldi  —  what  is  the 
matter  ? " 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  Monaldi,  his  lip  quiver- 
ing as  he  spoke  ;  "  I  knew  not  till  this  day  that  I 
could  ever  become  an  object  of  terror." 

The  look  of  wildness  and  misery  with  which 
this  was  uttered  struck  to  Rosalia's  heart:  she 
could  make  no  answer,  but,  throwing  herself  on 
his  neck,  burst  into  tears.  Monaldi  shrunk  from 
her  touch  as  from  the  coil  of  a  serpent,  and  he 
would  have  shaken  her  off  had  not  an  undefined 
something  in  his  memory  restrained  him. 

"  Dearest  husband — oh,  speak  to  me!"  said 
Rosalia,  as  soon  as  she  could  find  words.  "  Are 
you  ill  ? " 

"  No." 

"Then  why  do  you  look  so?  Has  anything 
happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  so  ;  something  must  —  or  you 
would  not  be  thus." 

"  How  thus  ?  " 

"  As  you  never  were  before." 

"  True,  I  never  —  Pshaw  —  there  's  nothing  the 
matter  ;  and  I  have  told  you  I  am  very  well." 

"Nothing!"  —  this  was  the  first  instance  of 
reserve  since  their  marriage.  Rosalia  felt  its  chill 


MONALDI.  143 

as  from  an  actual  blast,  and  her  arms  mechani- 
cally dropped  by  her  side.  Ah,  Monaldi !  you 
have  yet  to  know  your  wife.  And  yet  I  ought  — 
I  do  honor  your  motive ;  you  would  spare  her  pain. 
But  if  you  knew  her  heart,  you  would  feel  that 
your  unkindest  act  would  be  to  deny  her  the  privi- 
lege of  sharing  in  your  sufferings.  Hitherto,  up 
to  this  sad  moment,  I  have  been  the  wife  of  your 
joys  ;  a  twin  being  with  you  in  happiness,  sharing 
with  you  the  consciousness  of  a  double  existence  ; 
for  all  your  thoughts,  your  wishes,  your  emotions 
were  mine  ;  and  they  were  all  joyous  —  all  —  up 
to  this  hour.  And  can  you  think  then  so  poorly 
of  my  heart  to  suppose  that  for  this  accumulation 
of  life  —  into  which,  as  I  look  back,  almost  an  age 
seems  pressed  —  that  for  all  this,  which  I  owe  to 
you  alone,  it  yearns  not  to  make  return  ?  And 
what  is  the  heart's  wealth  but  sympathy  ?  Shall 
mine  become  niggard  in  your  distress  ?  No,  Mo- 
naldi ;  the  heart  capable  of  knowing  such  felicity 
in  another's  being  must  wither  if  it  share  not  in 
his  woe  as  in  his  weal. 

There  is  a  certain  tone  —  if  once  heard,  and 
heard  in  the  hour  of  love  —  which  even  the  tongue 
that  uttered  it  can  never  repeat,  should  its  purpose 
be  false.  Monaldi  heard  it  now  ;  there  was  no 
resisting  that  breath  from  the  heart ;  he  felt  its 


144  MONALDI. 

truth  as  it  were  vibrating  through  him,  and  he 
continued  gazing  on  her  till  a  sense  of  his  injustice 
flushed  him  with  shame.  For  a  moment  he  cov- 
ered his  face  ;  then,  turning  gently  towards  her, 
"  Rosalia,"  said  he,  in  a  softened  accent  —  but  his 
emotion  prevented  his  proceeding. 

"  Speak,  my  dear  husband,  and  tell  me  that  you 
think  me  not  unworthy  to  be  one  with  you  in  sor- 
row. Oh,  Monaldi,  it  seems  as  if  there  would 
almost  be  pleasure  in  the  pain  endured  with  you  ! 
But  this  I  know  —  and  the  conviction  is  wrought 
into  my  nature  —  that  my  soul  would  not  exchange 
its  community  even  of  misery  with  thee  for  all  of 
pleasure  or  of  joy  which  the  world  could  give  with- 
out thee." 

"  My  wife  !  thou  art  indeed  my  own  ! "  said 
Monaldi,  clasping  her  to  his  bosom.  "  Oh,  what 
a  face  is  this  !  how  poor  a  veil  would  it  be  to  any 
thing  evil.  Falsehood  could  not  hide  there." 
Then  quitting  her  for  a  moment,  he  walked  up 
the  room.  "  I  have  read  her  every  thought,"  said 
he  to  himself;  "  had  they  been  pebbles  at  the  bot- 
tom of  a  clear  stream,  they  could  not  have  been 
more  distinct.  With  such  a  face  she  cannot  be 
false."  As  he  said  this,  an  expression  of  joy  light- 
ed up  his  features,  and  he  turned  again  to  his  wife. 
There  needed  not  a  word  to  interpret  his  look  ;  — 


MONALDI.  145 

she  sprang  forward,  and  his  arms  again  opened  to 
receive  her. 

"  My  own  Monaldi !  "  said  the  happy  Rosalia. 

"  Your  own  indeed  !  Oh,  Rosalia,  you  know 
not  —  you  have  never  known,  your  whole  power. 
From  the  moment  we  first  met,  it  seemed  as  if  my 
spirit  had  gone  from  me,  and  taken  its  abode  in 
thee  ;  giving  up  every  thought,  every  impulse  to 
be  moulded  according  to  thy  will.  And  thou  hast 
made  me  happier,  ay,  and  wiser,  in  the  mingling 
with  thy  pure  nature ;  so  happy,  that  I  have  some- 
times almost  doubted  if  I  were  not  dreaming  of 
the  future  intercourse  between  the  souls  of  the 
blest." 

"  Let  me  then,  dear  husband,  continue  to  you 
this  happiness." 

"  It  lives,  as  it  ever  must,  in  thee." 

"Then  let  me  lighten  the  present  load  that 
weighs  on  your  mind ;  let  me  share  it  with  you, 
as  I  have  shared  in  your  joys." 

"  What  load  ?  Am  I  not  happy  ?  —  Feel  it," 
said  he,  placing  her  hand  on  his  heart ;  "  is  it  not 
light  ? " 

"Now.     But  —  " 

"  But  what  ?  " 

"  Your  late  distress." 

"  Did  I  appear  so  much  distressed  ?  "    asked 
13 


146  MONALDI. 

Monaldi,  while  his  conscience  smote  him  for  the 
question. 

"You  looked  —  oh,  never  may  you  look  so 
again." 

"  Nay,  't  was  half  your  imagination." 

"  Monaldi,"  said  Rosalia  gravely ;  I  know  you 
too  well :  you  will  not  say  you  had  no  cause  for  it.'3 

He  felt  the  rebuke,  and  a  pang  went  to  his 
heart  as  the  meditated  falsehood  rose  to  his  tongue. 
It  was  the  first  untruth  he  had  ever  deliberately 
consented  to.  Yet  how  could  he  lay  open  what 
had  passed  within  him  ?  It  would  make  her  mise- 
rable ;  and  himself —  no,  she  would  not  hate, 
but  she  must  despise  him.  "  Yes,  it  must  be," 
said  he  to  himself;  "  it  will  at  least  spare  her." 
He  then  confessed  that  he  had  been  a  good  deal 
discomposed  by  a  conversation  with  a  brother  art- 
ist, from  whom  he  had  learnt  certain  facts  con- 
cerning the  baseness  of  a  person  in  whom  he  had 
once  felt  an  interest ;  and  that  the  shock,  together 
with  his  long  walk,  had  been,  as  she  had  seen,  too 
much  for  him. 

Such  was  the  deception  to  which  Monaldi's  un- 
fortunate situation  now  tempted  him.  He  felt 
degraded  as  he  uttered  it,  and  was  about  to  excuse 
himself  from  giving  the  particulars,  when  Rosalia, 
by  a  timely  interruption,  saved  him  the  mortifica- 


MONALDI.  147 

tion  of  further  duplicity.  "  No  more,"  she  said ; 
"  't  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  calamity  has 
spared  you.  Besides,  I  have  no  woman's  curi- 
osity ;  or,  if  I  have,  a  friend's  misdeed  is  best  buri- 
ed in  silence  ;  't  is  a  cause  of  sorrow  into  which  a 
wife  even  may  not  with  delicacy  pry." 

He  took  her  hand  without  making  any  answer. 

One  day  back  this  sentiment  would  hardly  have 
struck  him  ;  it  would  have  entered  his  mind  only 
as  a  part  of  the  harmonious  whole  which  made  her 
character ;  now  it  came  «"ontrasted  with  his  own 
dissimulation,  and  he  thought,  as  he  looked  on  her, 
that  he  had  never  before  felt  the  full  majesty  of 
her  soul. 

The  meaning  of  his  eyes  was  felt  at  her  heart, 
and  the  blushing  wife  hid  her  face  in  his  bosom  ; 
for,  whether  maid  or  wife,  a  blush  is  the  last  grace 
that  forsakes  a  pure  woman  ;  't  is  the  abiding  hue 
with  her  nature ;  and  never  is  it  seen  so  truly 
feminine  as  when,  like  hers,  it  reveals  the  con- 
sciousness of  merited  praise. 

Their  happiness  now  seemed  complete,  Monaldi 
even  doubting  if  he  had  ever  been  so  blest ;  when 
a  loud  ringing  at  the  gate  gave  a  sudden  turn  to 
his  thoughts.  The  sound,  in  spite  of  himself, 
recalled  the  suspicion  which  had  crossed  him  on 
entering  ;  for  the  alarm  of  his  wife  was  still  unex- 


148  MONALDI. 

plained  ;  it  had  passed  from  him,  but  no  sooner 
did  it  return  than  a  rapid  revulsion  took  place  in 
his  feelings.  He  moved  away  from  her,  and, 
averting  his  face,  rested  his  head  upon  his  hands 
against  the  mantlepiece.  But  the  parting  with 
peace  is  hard ;  and  he  made  an  effort  to  retain  it. 
"  Might  she  not  explain  it  to  his  satisfaction  ? " 
He  looked  at  her  as  the  question  crossed  his  mind, 
and  his  suspicion  almost  vanished.  Yet  he  could 
not  but  wish  to  know  the  cause  of  her  alarm  ;  he 
should  not  else  feel  sure.  And  he  again  drew 
near  her. 

«  Rosalia,"  said  he. 

"  What  would  you  ? " 

"  I  was  thinking  —  or  rather,  it  just  occurs  to 
me,  that  when  I  came  in  you  appeared  to  be  ex- 
pecting some  one.  May  I  ask  whom  ?  " 

« What,  I  ?  No.  I  expected  nobody.  You 
know  't  is  not  the  hour  for  visiters." 

"  And  yet  you  seemed  alarmed  when  I  entered, 
as  if  —  " 

"What?" 

"  I  were  the  wrong  person." 

"  Whom  could  I  expect  but  you  ?  " 

"  Nay,  your  exclamation  showed  that  you  did 
not  then  think  of  me,"  said  Monaldi,  endeavoring 
to  assume  a  jocular  air. 


MONALDI.  149 

"  True  I  did  not,  for  the  length  of  your  absence 
made  me  conclude  that  you  were  gone  to  St. 
Luke's.1  I  was  going  into  the  hall  as  you  lifted 
the  latch  ;  but  as  you  did  not  come  in,  I  supposed 
it  old  Gieuseppe,  who,  you  know,  is  somewhat 
slow  in  his  movements :  so  I  spoke." 

This  explanation  was  too  simple  and  natural 
not  to  produce  the  desired  effect.  Monaldi  felt  its 
truth,  and  his  brow  again  became  clear. 

"  But  why  are  you  so  curious  ?  "  asked  Rosalia. 

"  Nay,  don't  put  me  to  my  trumps  for  whys 
and  wherefores,"  replied  Monaldi,  smiling.  "  You 
may  place  it  to  the  account  of  idleness,  which, 
you  know,  generally  speaks  first  and  thinks  after- 
wards." 

A  servant  now  entering,  informed  Monaldi  that 
the  person  who  rang  at  the  gate  had  inquired  for 
him ;  but,  on  being  told  he  was  at  home,  replied  it 
was  no  matter,  and  went  away. 

Suspicion  seldom  returns  without  increase  of 
poison,  especially  if  it  light  on  a  cicatrized  wound. 
The  report  of  the  servant  seemed  instantly  to  over- 
throw all  that  Monaldi  had  just  imagined  too  firm 
to  be  shaken.  "  What,  ask  for  me,  and  go  away 
without  seeing  me  !  "  His  evil  star  now  mounted 

1  The  Roman  Academy  of  Art. 
13* 


150  MONALDI. 

the  ascendant,  and  he  immediately  connected  the 
stranger's  inquiry  with  his  wife.  "  Was  it  him, 
then,  she  was  expecting  when  I  returned  ?  It  must 
be  so  ;  and  the  inquiry  —  it  no  doubt  means,  can 
she  be  safely  seen  —  and  alone." 

Such  were  his  thoughts  when  he  turned  from 
the  servant  to  Rosalia.  The  sternness  of  his  eye 
shocked  her,  and  she  sank  back  in  her  chair. 
"  Can  it  be  possible  ?  "  said  he  to  himself.  "  But 
I  will  sift  it  calmly."  Then  turning  to  the  man, 
he  asked,  "  What  sort  of  person  —  was  he  a  gen- 
tleman ?  " 

"  I  believe  so,"  was  the  answer. 

"  You  believe  !    Could  you  not  see  ?  " 

"  No,  sir ;  his  face  was  so  muffled  up,  I  could 
not  get  a  glimpse  of  it." 

"  Ha !  —  Do  you  know,"  said  Monaldi,  still  ad- 
dressing the  servant,  but  looking  towards  his  wife, 
"  do  you  know  the  count  Fialto  ?  " 

The  man  answered  in  the  negative. 

"  Fialto  !  "  repeated  Rosalia,  half  audibly. 

Monaldi  caught  the  echo,  and,  dismissing  the 
domestic,  stood  before  her  for  some  time  without 
speaking.  "  Ay,"  said  he  at  length,  "Fialto! 
Does  the  name  disturb  you  ?  " 

"Good  heaven!"  cried  Rosalia;  "what  does 
this  mean  ? " 


MONALDI.  151 

"  Can  it  have  a  meaning  ?  " 

"  Monaldi,  I  know  not  what  to  make  of  you." 

"  Nor  I  of —  But  you  have  not  answered  my 
question." 

"  You  have  asked  none." 

"  No  ? "  Recollect  yourself — 't  was  about  this 
Count." 

"  What  of  him  ?  " 

"  I  only  asked  why  his  name,  more  than  any 
other,  should  so  alarm  you." 

"  Alarm  me  !    No,  why  should  I  be  alarmed  ? " 

"  Perhaps  I  was  mistaken,  and  you  —  were  quite 
tranquil." 

"  I  was  surprised,  I  confess,"  replied  Rosalia ; 
"  and  my  surprise  was  natural,  when  I  heard  the 
name  of  such  a  man  joined  with  a  visit  to  you." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  he  is  so  infamous  that  I  cannot  but 
think  it  degrading  to  you  to  hold  any  intercourse 
with  him,  even  in  the  way  of  your  profession  ;  to 
which  alone  I  can  ascribe  this  visit." 

For  a  moment  Monaldi's  suspicion  was  stagger- 
ed. He  turned  from  his  wife,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  floor.  "  Could  I  believe,"  said  he  mentally, 
"  that  her  heart  spoke  this  ;  that  it  is  not  a  gloss, 
a  cunning  turn  for  escape.  It  might  be  —  and  it 
might  not.  Heaven  and  hell  are  not  more  wide 


152  MONALDI. 

asunder  than  the  speech  and  purpose  of  a  dissem- 
bling woman.  Should  she  be  false  !  —  But  I 
will  not  be  rash.  Yet  there  is  a  way  —  yes  —  and 
I  will  stir  her  heart,  be  it  of  mortal  elements ;  find 
out  the  feverish  spot,  if  there  be  one  —  lay  my 
finger  on  it  —  so  that  she  shall  wince,  ay,  as  from 
a  coal  of  fire." 

"  Monaldi,  why  are  you  thus  ?  What  makes 
you  so  absent  ?  Are  you  displeased  that  I  have 
spoken  thus  of  this  man  ?  " 

"  Let  him  speed  to  hell !  "  said  he,  pacing  the 
room  violently. 

"  Dearest  husband  ! "  cried  Rosalia,  stopping 
him  and  clinging  to  him,  "  what  makes  you  talk 
thus  ? " 

"  Words  may  sometimes  have  no  meaning." 

"  But  your's  have.  Something  dreadful  pos- 
sesses you." 

"  'T  is  nothing." 

«  Oh,  Monaldi !  " 

"  I  have  been  foolish  —  very  foolish.  I  ought 
to  be  happy  —  ought  I  not  ?  " 

"  Oh,  if  /  can  make  you  so  !  You  are  my  all  — 
my  very  all  on  earth.  I  have  no  wish,  no  will  but 
yours;  and  my  heart  —  oh,  the  wretchedness  it 
now  feels  —  which  you  make  it  feel  —  too  well 
bears  witness  that  it  is  yours,  even  as  if  it  were 


MONALDI.  153 

beating  in  your  own  bosom.  Tell  me  then  — 
command  me  —  what  shall  I  say,  or  do,  to  re- 
store your  peace  ? " 

Monaldi  covered  his  face,  as  if  he  feared  to  trust 
himself  to  look  at  her ;  but  his  resolution  endured 
but  for  an  instant.  "  Oh,  you  are  an  angel !  —  or 

—  yes,"  said  he,  pressing  her  hand  to  his  forehead 

—  "  you  are  an  angel.     That  face  would  pass  the 
gates  of  Paradise  unquestioned  !  .  .  .  But  a  face, 
a  mere  face  !  "  he  added  to  himself —  "  it  has 
duped  thousands  ! "    The  hand  dropped  from  his 
grasp.     "  And  words  —  yes,  they  are  the  devil's 
coin,  that  has  bought  millions  of  souls  for  eternal 
slavery.     I  ought  not  to  trust  to  them  —  so  many 
circumstances  weigh  against  her — I  ought  not. 
She  must  be  proved.     If  she  stand  the  proof,  then, 
and  not  till  then  —  " 

"  Your  words  indeed,"  said  Rosalia,  "  are  always 
kind,  even  beyond  my  merit ;  but  your  manner  —  " 
There  was  something,  though  she  knew  not  what, 
in  the  impression  it  had  left,  which  she  could  not 
bear  to  think  of,  and  she  stopped. 

"  My  head  is  dizzy,"  said  Monaldi,  waiving  her 
from  him  —  "I  cannot  talk  ;  "  then,  throwing 
himself,  or  rather  sinking  into  a  chair,  he  relapsed 
into  silence.  What  passed  in  his  thoughts  was 
too  deep  for  the  eye,  for  his  expression  indicated 
nothing. 


154  MONALDI. 

Rosalia  watched  his  countenance,  and  thought 
she  perceived  his  emotion  subsiding.  But  he  was 
meditating  a  desperate  stroke,  and  sought  to  con- 
trol his  features. 

"  Do  you  not  feel  better  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Who  ? "  said  Monaldi ;  for  the  question  seemed 
to  wake  him  as  from  a  dream  ;  but  instantly  col- 
lecting himself,  he  added,  "  Ay  —  yes,  much  bet- 
ter. It  was  a  strange  feeling  —  but  it  has  passed 
off,  and  I  may  yet  smile  perhaps." 

«  Oh,  that  I  could  see  you." 

"  But  not  now  :  it  would  be  too  much  like  the 
smile  of  that  martyr  ;  and  you  would  not  have  me 
set  my  face  by  a  picture  —  become  the  second  hand 
of  a  shadow  ?  " 

Rosalia,  who  did  not  perceive  the  bitterness  of 
this  levity,  began  to  feel  somewhat  relieved. 
"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  "  when  you  tell  me  what  has 
so  moved  you,  I  may  pour  a  balm  into  your  heart 
that  will  make  you  smile  even  there." 

"  No,  not  yet ;  one  day  you  will  know." 

"Why  not  now?" 

"  No,  you  would  not  bear  it  —  (yes,  it  would 
crush  her  if  innocent)." 

"  Nay,  there  is  nothing  with,  or  for  thee,  that  I 
would  not  bear." 

"  No,  not  now,  it  must  not  be.  But  I  will  tell 
you  a  story." 


MONALDI.  155 

"  A  story  !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Monaldi,  «  will  you  hear  it?  " 

The  wretched  wife  could  only  answer  with  a 
look  of  anguish  ;  for  the  dreadful  surmise  crossed 
her  that  his  brain  was  unsettled. 

"  'T  is  the  story  of  a  young  artist,  once  a  man 
of  some  promise  —  but  whom  misery  has  now  lev- 
elled with  the  million.  Can  you  conceive  of 
this?" 

"  But  too  well !  "  replied  Rosalia,  in  a  voice  that 
spoke  the  full  extent  of  her  fears. 

"  Indeed  !  Then  you  think  that  a  painter  even 
may  have  a  heart  to  break  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  husband  !  why  —  why  — " 

"  Nay,"  interrupted  Monaldi  —  "  what  need  of'' 
any  other  world  has  a  fellow  that  builds  fantastic 
ones  of  his  own  ?  Or  what  has  he  to  do  with  feel- 
ings off  his  canvass?  The  world  think  him  all 
head  and  will  tell  you  of  some  who  have  deliber- 
ately mangled,  nay,  even  murdered,  their  models 
for  the  sake  of  catching  a  clever  agony.  What 
think  you  of  such  grave  facts  ? " 

"  They  are  senseless  calumnies." 

"  Perhaps  so.     But  to  the  painter." 

"Speak  on,"  said  Rosalia,  watching  his  lips 
with  a  breathless  eagerness,  yet  dreading  every  in- 
stant to  hear  what  would  confirm  her  suspicion. 


156  MONALDI. 

Monaldi  proceeded.  "  He  had  a  young  and 
beautiful  wife,  who  was  every  thing  —  life  to  him ; 
for  he  lived  only  in  her ;  such  too  did  he  think  he 
was  to  her :  in  a  word,  they  had  married  for  love. 
Do  you  mark !  —  for  love." 

« I  do." 

"  Well,  the  first  year  of  their  union  had  passed  ; 
and  the  husband  looked  back  upon  it  as  on  a  vis- 
ion dreamed  of  in  some  happier  planet ;  yet  the 
past  was  but  a  shadow  to  what  he  saw  in  hope  — 
a  hint,  a  type  only,  to  his  sanguine  imagination,  of 
a  more  blest  reality  to  come.  Foolish  mortal !  he 
should  have  remembered  that  he  was  yet  on  earth  ; 
that  the  thing  he  loved  was  of  earth  —  but  anima- 
ted dust,  subject  to  be  mixed  with,  to  be  debased 
by  other,  and  grosser,  particles  of  its  own  element. 
But  his  delusion  was  short.  There  was  a  man  — 
I  was  about  to  call  him  a  devil ;  but  I  need  not 
rake  hell  for  his  qualities  ;  they  are  human.  Yes, 
he  was  a  man  —  man  in  its  worst  sense;  selfish, 
cruel,  sensual.  Don't  shudder  at  the  picture  ;  for 
this  triple  curse  of  his  nature  was  hidden  from  the 
eye ;  it  lay  close  in  his  heart  —  deep  buried  in  a 
form  of  fascinating  beauty,  and  kept  from  sight  by 
the  magic  of  a  tongue  that  could  make  even  vice 
seem  lovely.  Know  you  one  like  him  ?  " 

"  Heaven  forbid !  " 


MONALDI.  157 

"  No,  a  woman's  eye  would  not  pierce  the 
exterior  —  it  could  not  read  his  soul  till  he  had 
wholly,  tainted  hers.  But  that  —  no,  it  could 
not  yet  —  " 

"  What  could  not  yet  ?  " 

"Nothing.  Well,  this  man  had  fixed  his  eye 
on  the  painter's  wife.  By  some  means  or  other, 
not  material  to  the  story  >  the  husband  suspected  it 
had  reached  her  heart.  Yet  he  kept  it  to  himself. 
Do  you  attend  ? " 

"  Go  on,"  said  Rosalia,  still  racked  with  doubt ; 
"  I  hear  every  word." 

"  'T  is  a  dismal  tale  — but  so  is  life." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  so." 

"  Perhaps  't  is  not ;  we  have  yet  to  prove  it. 
Well,  the  husband  was  one  night  persuaded  to  go 
to  the  theatre :  his  wife,  I  know  not  why,  perhaps 
she  pleaded  a  head-ache  —  remained  at  home. 
Do  you  mind  ?  —  she  remained  at  home." 

"  Well." 

"  In  the  box  opposite  him  the  husband  saw  this 
man.  The  first  act  was  hardly  begun  when,  a  bil- 
let being  brought  to  him,  he  left  the  house.  The 
husband  saw  what  passed ;  his  mind  instantly  con- 
nected the  note  with  his  wife.  Do  you  hear  ? " 

« I  do." 

"  Then  you  understand  1 "  said  Monaldi,  lower- 
14 


158  MONALDI. 

ing  his  voice,  and  looking  into  her  eyes  as  if  he 
would  search  her  very  soul. 

"  What  am  I  to  understand  ?  "  said  Rosalia. 

"  That  she  took  advantage  of  her  husband's  ab- 
sence to  make  an  assignation :  so  he  thought  — 

and  so Ha !  she  shakes  not  —  it  does  not 

move  her  a  jot,"  said  he  to  himself.  "  Can  her 
self-possession  be  forced  ?  Could  she  hear  this 
with  eyes  so  steady  ?  They  did  not  even  wink  — 
but  kept  on  mine,  fixed  and  unconscious,  as  if  she 
were  a  picture.  Could  guilt  stand  so  the  look, 
the  tone  —  my  whole  prejudging  manner?  Im- 
possible !  Merciful  Heaven  !  should  she  be  inno- 
cent ! " 

"  Will  you  not  go  on  ?  "  said  Rosalia. 

"  Directly,"  replied  Monaldi,  rising,  and  moving 
to  a  window.  The  twilight  had  already  faded  to 
a  faint  streak  in  the  horizon,  and  the  smaller  stars 
were  fast  gathering  in  the  west ;  it  was  what  he 
was  wont  to  call  his  soul's  hour.  He  threw  up 
the  window,  and  the  night-breeze  came  fresh  up- 
on his  flushed  forehead.  "  Sweet  air  of  Heaven  ! 
thou,  at  least,"  said  he,  "  art  pure.  Oh,  that  I 
might  once  more  bless  thee !  that  I  might  love 
again  the  light  of  these  stars,  and  mount,  and  mix 
in  spirit  with  yon  happy  clouds,  sailing  in  peace 
over  the  troubled  earth ! "  The  wish  instantly 


MONALDI.  159 

forced  the  past  into  the  present,  and  the  contrast 
struck  him  to  the  quick.  "  Why,"  he  asked,  "  am 
I  not  now  as  once?"  His  lingering  doubt  soon 
answered  the  question.  And  doubts  are  never  in- 
active ;  if  they  cannot  go  forward  they  are  sure  to 
go  back.  So  it  was  with  Monaldi's ;  they  had  no 
sooner  returned  than  he  was  flung  back  in  agony 
to  every  suspicious  word,  look,  and  hint.  "  No, 
they  are  all  too  connected  to  be  without  an  ob- 
ject— and  what  object  can  they  have  but  her? 
Do  they  not  all  point  to  her  ?  They  do :  and  her 
self-possession  must  be  assumed.  But  I  will  put  it 
to  a  fiercer  test.  If  she  has  a  particle  of  love  for 
the  wretch,  that  must  touch  her." 

Rosalia  now  approached,  and  taking  his  hand, 
begged  him  to  go  on  with  his  story ;  for  her  dread- 
ful misgivings  still  hung  upon  her ;  and  she  felt  im- 
patient to  hear  him  speak,  in  the  hope,  faint  as  it 
was,  that  the  connexion  of  his  thoughts  would  be 
such  as  to  do  away  her  fears.  "Come,  my  love," 
she  said,  "  finish  the  tale :  't  is  indeed  a  sad  one  ; 
but  I  wish  to  hear  how  it  ends." 

"  Do  you  ? S'death,  she  mocks  me ! 

I  see  it  now,  her  coolness  is  acted.  Yes,  she 
shall  hear  it  —  and  hear  the  catastrophe  that  ought 
to  have  been  hers." 

"  Come,  sit  by  me,"  said  Rosalia. 


160  MONALDI. 

Monaldi  grasped  her  hand.  "  Rosalia  —  "  his 
voice  now  deepened  to  a  tone  almost  terrific  — 
"  Rosalia,  there  are  workings  of  the  elements  even 
in  the  centre  of  this  solid  earth.  Think  you  they 
work  of  themselves  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Think  you  then  that  He,  who  gave  them  im- 
pulse, cannot  see  through  the  miles  of  thick  matter 
that  incrusts  them  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  the  eye  of  Heaven  sees  all  that  is  made." 

"And  all  that  is  done  ? " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Yet  there  are  creatures,  who  call  themselves 
rational,  that  will  do  deeds  that  sink  their  fellows 
in  misery  —  deliberately  do  them  ;  nay,  watch  and 
fast,  ay,  and  would  pray  too,  did  hell  need  it,  for 
their  black  hour  of  luck  ;  yet  wink  not  even  under 
that  all-seeing  eye.  Perhaps  they  think  not  of  it ; 
or  foolishly  hope  to  hide  them  in  night.  Wretch- 
ed hope  !  Though  the  sun  were  extinguished,  and 
a  thicker  darkness  than  ever  mortal  dreamt  of 
wrapt  her  about,  yet  would  that  eye,  swifter  than 
light,  pierce  to  the  bed  of  the  adulteress." 

Monaldi  still  perceived  no  change  in  her. 

"  What  is  she  made  of  ?  "  said  he  to  himself. 
"  I  talk  to  the  dull  ear  of  a  corpse  !  But  there  are 
hearts,  which  defy  Heaven,  that  will  yet  shrink  at 


MONALDI.  161 

the  touch  of  a  human  hand.     If  hers  be  such,  she 
shall  feel  it." 

The  intense  anxiety  of  Rosalia,  together  with 
the  harrowing  nature  of  its  cause,  had  given  a  fixed- 
ness to  her  expression,  which,  contrasted  with  the 
rapid  and  violent  transitions  of  thought  and  feel- 
ing in  her  husband,  made  her  appear  to  him  quite 
calm  and  collected.  At  a  time  of  less  excitement, 
he  might  have  been  startled  at  the  almost  petrified 
gaze  with  which  she  watched  his  slightest  move- 
ment ;  but  now  he  only  felt  the  contrast  of  her 
stillness  with  his  own  tumult. 

"  But  the  story,"  said  Rosalia  — 

"  I  fear  you  will  not  relish  it." 

"  Nay,  I  would  hear  it,  nevertheless." 

«  Where  was  I  ?  " 

"  At  the  theatre." 

"True  —  I  was  there.  But  'tis  strange  you 
should  wish  to  hear  it ;  with  a  woman's  nerves 
too.  Yet  no  —  nothing  's  strange  to  me  now.  I 
have  heard  of  one  who  had  his  funeral  rehearsed ; 
I  once  doubted  it ;  but  I  was  then  inexperienced. 
Well,  listen.  So  far  her  case,  if  guilty  —  now  to 
what  should  have  followed. 

. "  In  order  to  give  time  for  the  paramours  to 
meet,  the  husband  delayed  his  return  home  for 
near  an  hour  ;  then,  having  a  master-key,  he  let 

14* 


162  MONALDI. 

himself  in  without  noise.  The  parlor,  as  he  ex- 
pected, was  vacant.  Mark  —  I  am  coming  to  a 
close.  The  wife,  it  seems,  was  in  her  chamber ; 
and  the  chamber,  like  ours,  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  —  suppose  it  ours.  When  the  husband 
reached  the  landing-place,  hearing  a  stir  in  the 
room,  he  concealed  himself  behind  the  pedestal  of 
a  statue  —  as,  it  might  be,  the  one  near  our  cham- 
ber. Do  you  note  ?  Keep  the  place  in  your 
mind." 

« I  will." 

"  And  imagine  it  in  this  house." 

«  Well." 

"  Oh,  't  will  be  better !  —  Where  was  I  ?  —  Oh, 
behind  the  statue.  He  had  scarcely  taken  his 
station  there,  before  the  door  opened.  His  suspi- 
cion was  now  confirmed  ;  the  wife  was  giving  her 
paramour  a  parting  embrace.  To  hell !  cried  the 
husband,  springing  upon  them  with  a  furious 
bound  —  and  his  sword  in  an  instant  pinned  the 
wife  and  the  wretch  Fialto  to  the  door !  " 

"  Horrible  !  "  said  Rosalia,  shuddering. 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  Monaldi,  crushing  her  hand  within 
both  of  his,  "  was  it  well  done  ?  " 

Rosalia,  whose  Christian  temper  revolted  at 
murder,  even  to  avenge  the  most  atrocious  wrong, 
was  too  much  shocked  to  reply.  But  her  face 


MONALDI.  163 

spoke  anything  but  guilt;  and  Monaldi  felt  its 
meaning,  yet  fearing  to  trust  to  it,  he  hurried  on. 

"  But  Fialto  ;  speak —  did  he  deserve  it  ?  " 

"  The  galleys  even,"  said  Rosalia,  with  a  look 
of  disgust. 

"  How  !  is  that  worse  than  death  ?  " 

"  Is  he  not  still  living,  and  at  large  ?  You  spoke 
of  him  to-night  as  if  you  supposed  him  the  person 
who  rang  at  the  gate." 

"  True,  true  —  he  does  live  ;  he  recovered." 

"  Infamous  wretch  !  " 

"  What,  not  forgive  him  !  His  beauty  remains 
the  same  ;  and  that,  with  your  sex,  will  atone  for 
many  sins." 

"  This  to  me  1    Oh,  Monaldi !  " 

"  She  is  innocent !  "  exclaimed  Monaldi,  falling 
on  his  knees,  and  clasping  his  hands.  "  Thank 
God !  " 

"  Who  is  innocent  ?  "  said  the  astonished  wife. 

"You!" 

"I!    Of  what?" 

"  Of  everything  —  of  the  shadow  even  of  evil. 
Thou  art  all  purity  ! " 

"  What  is  this  enigma  ?  Monaldi,  why  do  you 
say  this  to  me  ?  " 

Monaldi's  eyes  fell :  for  a  moment  the  question 
confused  him  ;  but  soon  recovering,  he  replied, 


164  MONALDI. 

"  Can  you  ask  ?  Are  you  not  the  very  opposite  of 
the  wretched  adulteress  ?  And  can  I  know  it — 
feel  it,  as  I  do,  without  bursting  forth  in  joy  ?  " 

The  coherence  of  the  tale  had  now  satisfied  Ro- 
salia of  her  husband's  sanity.  But  the  time  he  had 
chosen  —  his  manner  of  telling  it  —  and  his  unusual 
excitement,  still  perplexed  her.  "  It  must,"  she 
thought,  "  in  some  way  concern  himself,  or  it 
would  not  have  taken  such  hold  of  him.  But  how  ? 
Might  it  not  be  what  he  first  alluded  to ;  the  same 
that  caused  his  emotion  before  he  returned  home  ? 
It  was  the  perfidy,  he  said,  of  one  he  had  formerly 
esteemed.  But  could  this  Count  have  been  that 
friend  ?  It  must  be  so  ;  for  it  seems  he  thought 
him  the  person  who  just  rang  at  the  gate,  and 
the  mention  of  his  name  naturally  brought  the 
story  more  vividly  to  his  mind.  Then  he  might 
have  known  the  unfortunate  husband.  Yes  ;  it  is 
so." 

These  thoughts  passed  so  rapidly  through  Rosa- 
lia's mind,  that  the  first  and  last  seemed  almost  to 
meet  in  the  same  instant.  "  It  is  so,"  she  repeat- 
ed aloud.  "  Monaldi,  I  no  longer  wonder,  for  I 
now  understand  the  cause  of  your  emotion." 

Monaldi  stood  aghast.  He  thought  she  had 
divined  the  object  of  his  suspicion,  and  her  con- 
tempt seemed  ready  to  overwhelm  him. 


MONALDI.  165 

"  You  know,"  she  added,  "  the  unfortunate 
husband." 

He  breathed  again.     "  I  do." 

"  Is  he  your  friend  ?  " 

"  There  is  but  one  on  earth  dearer  —  yourself." 

"  Monaldi,  I  honor  this  deep  feeling,  now  I 
know  the  cause  —  much  as  I  have  suffered  from 
it." 

"  And  did  you  suffer  ? " 

"  More  than  I  can  express  ;  for  I  thought  —  it 
makes  me  shudder  as  I  recall  it  —  " 

«  What  ! " 

"  That  your  brain  was  injured." 

"  Alas,"  thought  he,  "  how  near  the  truth  !  " 

"  What  a  heart  is  yours  !    If  you  feel  thus  for   • 
another,  what  would  have  been  your  misery,  had 
you  been  the  poor  husband." 

"  Do  not  let  us  think  of  it,"  said  he,  "  it  makes 
my  flesh  creep  to  imagine  even  —  " 

"  Ah,"  said  Rosalia,  with  a  melancholy  smile, 
"  that  same  imagination  would  be  a  fearful  master 
over  such  a  heart  as  yours." 

"  Never  can  it  become  so,"  replied  Monaldi, 
kissing  her  forehead  ;  "  never,  while  my  heart 
clings  to  such  a  reality.  Look  on  me,  Rosalia  — 
Oh,  how  beautiful  is  Truth  when  it  looks  out  from 
the  eyes  of  a  pure  woman  !  Such,  if  ever  visi- 


166  MONALDI. 

ble,  should  be  its  image  —  the  present  shadowing 
of  that  hallowed  harmony  which  the  soul  shall 
hereafter  know  in  substance." 

"  My  husband  !  "    Rosalia  could  say  no  more. 

The  night  now  closed  upon  them,  and  they  sunk 
to  sleep  with  hearts  too  full  for  another  wish. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MONALDI'S  fears  were  now  allayed ;  for  though 
some  of  their  causes  were  still  unexplained,  he 
studiously  drove  them  from  his  mind,  as  too  light 
to  outweigh  the  evidence  which  his  former  experi- 
ence and  Rosalia's  whole  manner  had  opposed  to 
them. 

This  respite  was  not  a  little  favored  by  Fialto's 
absence,  almost  a  month  having  passed  since  Mo- 
naldi  had  seen  him.  But  the  Count  was  not  idle  ; 
he  was  only  waiting  till  chance  should  furnish  him 
with  means  to  strike  the  last  blow.  With  this 
view  he  had  contrived  to  make  himself  acquainted 
with  all  Monaldi's  movements,  which  he  effected 
by  means  of  a  domestic  who  had  formerly  been  one 
of  his  creatures.  Antonio,  the  name  of  the  man, 
had  imposed  on  Monaldi  by  an  artful  tale  of  dis- 
tress, and  been  taken  into  his  service  from  motives 
of  charity.  But  Antonio  was  not  of  a  nature  to  be 
turned  from  his  course  by  any  act  of  kindness ;  he 
seldom  troubled  himself  about  any  motives  but  his 


168  MONALDI. 

own,  and  his  present  one,  the  hope  of  a  large  re- 
ward, was  strong  enough  to  keep  him  faithful  to 
his  employer. 

It  was  not  long  after  this,  that  Monaldi  received 
a  letter  from  the  steward  of  one  of  his  estates  near 
Genezzano,  requiring  his  presence  on  some  urgent 
business ;  and  mentioning  the  circumstance,  to- 
gether with  his  intention  of  setting  out  on  his  jour- 
ney the  next  day,  while  Antonio  was  waiting  at 
dinner,  it  was  accordingly  made  known  to  Fialto 
without  loss  of  time." 

Nothing  could  have  suited  the  Count  better. 
Genezzano  was  more  than  thirty  miles  from  Rome. 
Monaldi  must  calculate  on  being  absent  at  least 
two  days. 

What  use  Fialto  made  of  these  circumstances 
will  appear  by  the  following  letter,  written  as  if  in 
answer  to  one  from  Rosalia. 

"  A  thousand,  thousand,  thousand  thanks,  dear- 
est Rosalia,  for  your  precious  letter.  The  rapture 
—  but  a  truce  with  raptures  till  we  meet  —  for  I 
have  only  time  to  say,  that  I  shall  be  punctual  to 
the  hour  you  have  appointed  —  at  twelve  to  a 
minute.  Oh,  that  tomorrow  were  come  !  Could 
anything  be  more  fortunate  than  this  journey  to 
Genezzano  !  I  could  almost  worship  your  easy 


MONALDI.  169 

man  for  his  accommodating  spirit.  He  is  cer- 
tainly a  most  obliging  husband  —  perhaps  't  is  to 
make  up  for  not  leaving  us  longer  together  the 
other  night,  when  he  went  to  the  theatre.  You 
desire  me  not  to  reply  to  your  note,  "  because  't  is 
unnecessary  —  and  you  fear  needless  risks."  But 
for  once  I  must  disobey  you  ;  and  do  so  that  you 
might  learn  to  rely  more  in  future  on  the  prudence 
of  your  devoted  FIALTO." 

The  letter  being  prepared,  the  next  step  was  to 
have  it  seen  by  the  husband.  But  chance  again 
made  that  easy,  for  it  was  now  the  very  evening 
on  which  he  was  accustomed  to  make  his  weekly 
visit  to  St.  Luke's.  Fialto  knowing  this,  had 
therefore  only  to  take  his  former  station  at  the 
gate,  and,  pretending  to  mistake  Monaldi  for  a 
servant,  put  the  letter  into  his  hand.  The  night 
was  as  dark  as  could  have  been  wished  for  so  evil 
a  purpose.  He  accordingly  took  his  station  at  the 
proper  time,  when  a  loud  coughing  by  Antonio 
gave  notice  of  his  master's  approach.  Immedi- 
ately after,  Monaldi's  footstep  was  heard  in  the 
gateway.  "  So,  you  are  come  at  last,"  said  Fialto, 
speaking  low  and  rapidly  ;  "but  not  a  word,  good 
Gieuseppe,  we  may  be  overheard.  There,  take 
that  to  your  mistress  ;  and  there  's  postage."  So 
15 


170  MONALDI. 

saying,  he  thrust  the  letter,  with  a  piece  of  gold, 
into  Monaldi's  hand,  and  in  another  moment  he 
was  gone. 

The  rapidity  with  which  this  was  said  and  done, 
left  no  time  for  reply,  had  Monaldi  attempted  it ; 
but  the  words  "  Gieuseppe  "  and  "  mistress  "  were 
enough ;  he  did  not  even  hear  the  rest,  for  they 
seemed  to  stun  him,  and  he  stood  for  a  while  pass- 
ing the  letter  from  one  hand  to  the  other  in  a  kind 
of  vacant  distress,  till  the  sharp  sound  of  the  gold 
as  it  fell  and  rang  on  the  pavement,  again  brought 
him  to  his  senses.  It  was  then  he  began  to  feel 
that  he  was  possessed  at  last  of  what  would  decide 
his  fate.  He  returned  to  the  house,  and,  shutting 
himself  up  in  his  library,  placed  the  letter  on  the 
table  before  him.  Its  superscription  was  plain  — 
to  his  wife ;  yet  he  hesitated  for  a  moment  whether 
he  should  open  it.  But  his  mind  was  not  in  a 
state  for  refining ;  he  could  perceive  only  one 
alternative  —  complete  conviction  or  interminable 
suspicion ;  and  he  broke  the  seal.  The  letter 
dropt  from  his  hand,  and  his  head  sunk  on  the 
table  in  agony.  But  this  blow,  though  surer,  could 
not  have  the  same  effect  with  the  first ;  for  his 
mind  had  been  prepared  by  previous  suffering,  had 
been  warned,  as  it  were,  of  the  probable  evil,  and 
been  tempered  by  that  warning  to  bear  what  might 


MONAJLDI.  171 

else  have  driven  him  to  madness.  He  had  now 
indeed  a  nearer  and  more  certain  cause  for  wretch- 
edness, but  it  was  what  had  once  been  expected, 
and  wanted  the  force  of  newness ;  besides,  it  was 
now  distinct,  had  a  positive  shape ;  and  the  power 
of  enduring  calamity  is  generally  proportioned  to 
its  reality  ;  as  the  mind  can  oppose  its  strength  to 
what  is  real,  as  substance  resisting  substance,  but 
has  no  strength,  no  power  to  repel  the  intangible 
and  ever-multiplying  phantoms  of  the  imagination. 
Monaldi  felt  that  his  doom  was  now  sealed,  and 
he  rose  from  his  seat  with  a  desperate  calmness ; 
for  his  last  doubt  was  gone,  and  with  it  seemed  to 
have  fled  every  conflicting  emotion.  In  this  state 
he  continued  for  almost  half  an  hour,  his  arms 
folded,  and  his  eyes  wandering  without  object, 
when  a  glance  at  the  letter  gave  a  fiercer  impulse 
to  his  thoughts.  He  took  it  up,  and  again  at- 
tempted to  read  it ;  but  he  had  scarcely  finished 
the  first  sentence,  when,  dashing  it  with  fury  to 
the  floor,  he  stamped  upon  it  with  a  violence  that 
shook  the  very  walls.  "  Witch,  sorceress,  devil !  " 
he  cried,  half  choked  with  rage  —  "  thus,  thus  will 
I  crush  thee  !  "  At  that  moment  the  door  opened 
and  Gieuseppe  entered.  "  Wretch  !  "  cried  Mo- 
naldi, seizing  him  by  the  throat.  "  I  beg  pardon," 
said  the  man,  trembling.  "I  did  not  know  you 


172  MONALDI. 

were  at  home,  sir,  but  hearing  a  noise,  I  thought 
something  had  fallen." 

This  speech  gave  Monaldi  time  to  recover  him- 
self. "  True,"  said  he,  "  it  was  that  bust ;  it  must 
have  been  carelessly  put  up ;  but  you  need  not 
stay  to  replace  it  now,  —  I  am  engaged." 

"Yes,"  said  Monaldi,  as  the  servant  withdrew, 
"  and  I  too  will  play  the  hypocrite.  Truth  is  no 
match  for  falsehood  ;  't  is  only  hypocrisy  can  cir- 
cumvent treachery.  I  will  still  appear  the  easy 
man,  the  obliging  husband  —  and  the  pander  Gieu- 
seppe  shall  still  think  his  master  the  blind  gull. 
Yes,  I  will  seem  to  go  this  journey  —  still  seem  to 
make  amends  for  returning  so  soon  from  the  the- 
atre. Oh,  my  true  Genius,  how  clearly  didst  thou 
note  to  me  that  polluted  hour !  Yet  how  she  bore 
herself — with  what  a  face  she  looked  when  I  told 
the  tale  that  painted  it !  Oh,  woman,  could  your 
heart  be  seen  in  your  face,  we  should  love  toads 
sooner.  But  thou,  painted  toad  !  like  a  scorpion 
will  I  meet  thee.  The  appointment,  it  seems,  was 
made  by  her ;  and  she  forbids  an  answer.  Yes, 
she  knew  he  was  not  the  man  to  fail.  This 
letter  then  is  not  expected  —  of  course  its  miscar- 
riage will  not  be  discovered.  Nothing  could  have 
fallen  out  better  —  better  !  for  what  ?  For  the 
sealing  of  my  misery  !  Then  be  it  so  —  ha !  ha ! 


MONALDI.  173 

Oh,  that  I  had  an  enemy  —  how  impotent  would 
now  be  his  wrath  !  what  would  be  the  gall  of  ten 
thousand  deadly  hearts  now  poured  upon  mine  — 
mine,  that  is  filled  with  it  ?  that  already  sweats  it  ? 
But  I  will  not  keep  it  long  there ;  it  shall  soon 
out  like  a  flood  —  shall  drench,  shall  drown  this 
hot  bird  of  paradise  —  ay,  even  in  her  very  nest ! 
Yes,  I  will  go  this  journey,  and  she,  Gieuseppe, 
and  all,  shall  see  me  go  with  a  cheerful  face,  and 
a  light  heart  —  yes,  light  of  the  world ;  for  no- 
thing here  can  again  touch  it,  it  moves  now  in 
an  element  of  its  own.  And  when  they  think 
me  at  Genezzano  —  ha !  ha !  I  shall  then  reach 
my  zenith." 

So  saying,  he  rang  the  bell,  and  left  Gieuseppe 
to  clear  away  the  fragments  of  the  bust.  Then 
quitting  the  house,  he  proceeded  to  the  Academy. 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true^ 
that  with  some  natures  there  is  a  point  in  misery 
where  they  will  sport  with  their  sufferings,  and  ap- 
pear to  take  a  kind  of  dreadful  pleasure  in  magni-  £3^j 
fying  them,  nay,  even  task  the  future,  and  fly  to  it 
with  the  hope  for  something  more,  some  deeper 
woe,  to  keep  their  minds  in  action  —  which  solves 
the  mystery. 

Monaldi  needed  no  additional  proof  of  his  wife's 
infidelity ;    his  conviction  was   complete ;    yet  he 
15* 


174  MONALDI. 

thirsted  for  more  —  for  the  last  drop  of  the  bitter- 
est of  all  draughts. 

But  the  part  of  a  dissembler  was  still  new  to 
him,  and  difficult,  and  had  always  been  revolting 
to  his  nature ;  it  was  now  become  more  so  that 
it  seemed  to  be  forced  upon  him  by  her  in  whom, 
of  all  on  earth,  he  had  most  confided.  Yet  he 
went  through  it :  that  he  did  so  was  not  a  little 
owing  to  the  shortness  of  his  trial,  it  being  near 
midnight  before  he  returned  home  ;  perhaps,  how- 
ever, more  owing  to  the  trusting  temper  of  his 
wife,  who,  seeing  only  his  apparent  cheerfulness, 
could  hardly  have  suspected  an  opposite  feeling 
without  a  change  in  her  character  ;  for,  except  in 
very  glaring  cases,  the  senses  may  be  said  to  live 
in  an  atmosphere  of  the  mind. 

Had  Monaldi's  suffering  been  unmixed  with  the 
hope  of  vengeance,  he  might  have  found  disguise 
impossible ;  but  falsehood  is  of  the  family  of  re- 
venge, and  a  snare  and  a  mask  are  never  wanted 
when  needed  ;  it  was  this  prepared  him  for  the 
meeting,  and  he  entered  the  house  with  a  smile. 
Rosalia  looked  up,  and  gave  it  back  from  her 
heart ;  for  the  smile  of  one  we  love  cannot  be  seen 
unanswered. 

"  How  beautiful,"  thought  Monaldi,  "  may  even 
a  lie  look  !  —  Oh,  Sin,  take  always  this  form,  and 


MONALDI.  175 

the  world,  with  all  its  grave  philosophy,  its  solemn 
pomp  of  reason,  is  yours.  But  /  know  its  hollow- 
ness,  its  —  "  The  thought  was  too  revolting  ;  yet 
still  the  smile  remained  —  but  it  was  the  smile 
which  misery  gives  as  her  last  token,  the  mark, 
which  she  sets  upon  her  own. 

Before  Monaldi  returned  home,  he  had  worked 
himself  up  to  this  interview  by  desperately  recall- 
ing every  past  endearment,  every  audible  and 
silent  manifestation  of  tenderness  ;  in  short,  all 
that  he  was  wont  to  go  to  and  brood  over  in  se- 
cret ;  but  they  came  not  now  as  once,  like  definite 
and  luminous  points  in  his  life  ;  for  now  every 
word,  and  look,  and  delicate  caress  brought  with 
them  the  hateful  image  of  Fialto.  "  They  are  no 
longer  mine,"  said  he  ;  "  they  never  were  !  And 
I  can  hear  them,  see  them  —  do  all,  but  feel  them 
again.  Can  she  touch  again  the  heart  that  loves 
only  purity  ?  The  fictitious  life  which  her  false 
spirit  gave  to  it  is  gone  —  forever.  'T  is  now 
dead.  Could  it  feel  this  stony  stillness  were  it  not 
so  ?  Let  her  talk  and  look  then  —  she  will  talk  to 
ears  that  hear  not,  look  to  eyes  that  are  glazed. 
But  yet  —  yes,  I  will  mock  her  ;  mock  her  with  a 
phantom  of  the  love  she  has  murdered  —  murdered 
while  she  smiled ;  she  shall  still  think  it  lives,  and 
lives  for  her  !  " 


176  MONALDI. 

Morally  his  heart  was  dead.  But  what  must 
have  been  the  agony  with  which  a  heart  so  gentle, 
so  generous  and  noble,  stiffened  into  death  ! 

\  Let  no  one  marvel  at  this  change,  sudden  as  it 
may  seem ;  for  there  is  no  limit  to  human  incon- 
sistency. A  single  circumstance  has  often  trans- 
formed the  firmest  nature,  making  the  same  being 
his  own  strongest  contrast ;  many  things  —  injury, 
ingratitude,  disappointment  —  may  do  it;  in  a 
word,  anything  which  robs  a  man  of  that  which 
gives  a  charm  to  his  existence  ;  and  chiefly  and 
most  rapid  will  the  change  be  with  those  of  deep 
and  social  feelings,  who  live  in  others.  Such  is 
man  when  left  to  himself;  and  there  is  but  one 
thing  which  can  make  him  consistent  —  RELIGION  ; 

tthe  only  unchanging  source  of  moral  harmony. 
But  Monaldi,  unhappily,  knew  little  of  this.  Not 
that  he  was  wholly  without  religion ;  on  the  con- 
trary, his  understanding  having  assented  to  its 
truths,  he  believed  himself  a  good  Christian ;  but 
he  wanted  that  vital  faith  which  mingles  with  every 
thought  and  foreruns  every  action,  ever  looking 
through  time  to  their  fruits  in  eternity.  The  kind- 
ness and  generosity  of  his  disposition  had  hitherto 
stood  in  its  stead ;  he  had  delighted  in  making 
others  happy,  and  thought  nothing  a  task  which 
could  add  to  their  consolation  or  welfare.  But 


MONALDi.  177 

hitherto  he  had  been  happy,  and  his  life  had  seem- 
ed to  him  like  one  of  fresher  ages  ;  like  the  first 
stream  that  wandered  through  Eden,  sweet  and 
pure  in  itself,  and  bearing  on  its  bosom  the  bright 
and  lovely  images  of  a  thousand  flowers.  Would 
one  so  full  not  sometimes  overflow  ?  or  would  one 
so  filled  often  thirst  for  what  is  spiritual,  for  what 
belongs  to  the  dim  and  distant  future  ?  preparing 
in  the  hour  of  peace  for  the  hour  of  temptation  ? 
Then  he  had  met  with  no  adversity,  with  no  crosses 
to  wean  him  gradually  from  this  delightful  para- 
dise ;  no  sorrow  to  lift  his  soul  to  that  where  trou- 
ble cannot  enter.  But  though  the  present  world 
seemed  enough,  and  more  than  enough  for  him,  in 
reality  it  was  nothing  ;  it  was  only  through  one  of 
earth  that  he  saw  and  loved  all  else ;  she  alone 
filled  his  heart,  modified  his  perceptions,  and  shed 
her  own  beauty  over  every  vision  of  his  mind. 
Now  she  was  lost  to  him ;  torn  away  by  a  single 
wrench  :  And  could  this  have  been  without  leav- 
ing a  fearful  void  ?  To  Monaldi's  heart  she  was" 
all ;  and  his  all  was  now  gone,  leaving  it  empty. 
An  empty  human  heart !  —  an  abyss  the  earth's 
depths  cannot  match.  And  how  was  it  now  to  be^ 
filled  ?  His  story  will  show. 

The  further  operations  of  Fialto  depending  on 
the  success  of  his  letter,  he  had  instructed  Antonio 


178  MONALDI. 

to  watch  his  master's  motions,  and  report  accord- 
ingly. It  was  possible,  he  thought,  that  Monaldi 
might  escape  the  snare  by  openly  accusing  his 
wife,  and  examining  Gieuseppe  ;  in  which  case  the 
conspiracy  would  end  at  once  ;  a  result,  however, 
but  barely  possible.  It  was  more  probable  that 
Monaldi  would  set  out  on  his  journey  without 
coming  to  an  explanation ;  if  he  did  so,  only  one 
conclusion  could  follow  —  that  he  would  return 
secretly,  and  at  the  hour  of  the  assignation ; 
whether  to  satisfy  his  doubts  or  revenge  was  im- 
material ;  and  for  this  event  Fialto  was  provided, 
having  ordered  Antonio  to  engage  a  person  to 
watch  his  master  and  follow  him  back  to  the  city, 
in  order  to  give  notice  of  his  return,  the  signal 
agreed  upon  being  a  little  Venetian  air,  which 
the  man  was  to  play  as  soon  as  Monaldi  should 
have  entered  his  house. 

At  an  early  hour  the  next  morning  Antonio 
made  his  report,  and  Fialto  found  his  hopes  con- 
firmed. Monaldi  had  set  out  on  the  journey  ap- 
parently in  good  spirits,  and  unattended.  The 
spy  was  also  gone  ;  and  a  truer  hound  was  never 
put  on  the  trail. 

It  was  now  again  night,  and  it  only  remained 
for  Fialto  to  gain  admittance  into  the  house.  To 
make  this  easy,  Antonio  had  purposely  lost  a  bet 


MONALDI.  179 

to  Gieuseppe,  to  be  paid  in  a  flask  of  Orvietto. 
While  the  servants  were  engaged  with  the  wine, 
Antonio  stole  out,  and  admitted  the  Count  secretly, 
in  the  disguise  of  a  friar. 

Antonio  having  locked  the  door  of  his  master's 
dressing-room,  had  secured  the  key  early  in  the 
morning,  in  order  that  Rosalia  might  suppose  he 
had  taken  it  with  him  ;  of  course  she  would  not 
think  of  going  to  it  now.  In  this  room,  or  rather 
closet,  Fialto  took  his  station  ;  he  then  threw  off 
his  disguise,  and  locked  the  door.  The  closet 
opened  into  Rosalia's  bed-chamber,  and  the  cham- 
ber was  up  only  one  flight  of  stairs,  and  looked 
upon  the  street ;  a  circumstance  which  the  Count 
had  considered  with  a  view  to  his  escape,  to  facili- 
tate which  he  had  provided  a  ladder  of  ropes,  for, 
bold  as  he  was,  he  had  little  taste  for  perils  that 
promised  nothing. 

The  clock  struck  eleven,  and  Fialto  heard  the 
chamber  door  open,  and  a  light  step  pass  the  clo- 
set ;  this  was  followed  by  a  slight  movement  as  of 
one  undressing.  "  'T  is  she,"  he  thought.  Then 
it  was  still  again.  He  looked  through  the  key- 
hole to  see  if  she  was  in  bed,  and  saw  her  kneeling 
before  a  crucifix.  "  How  like  my  poor  nun  !  — 
Pshaw  —  that 's  past.  What  eyes  !  But  what 's 
her  beauty  to  me — at  least  now?  The  yellow 


180  MONALDI. 

face  of  a  sequin  is  more  to  my  present  liking. 
Yes,  Maldura's  gold  has  made  me  a  match  for  St. 
Antony.  There,"  added  he,  withdrawing  his  eyes, 
"  go  to  bed  in  peace  ;  I  doubt  't  is  the  last  time. 
But  there  are  millions  who  never  taste  it  —  and 
why  should  she  ?  she  may  find  a  substitute,  as  I 
do,  in  pleasure." 

A  few  minutes  after,  he  heard  her  rise  and  get 
into  bed.  "  She  has  left  the  lamp  burning.  So 
much  the  better  ;  there  will  be  no  mistake  as  to 
my  person.  'T  is  a  foolish  business  though  ;  but  — 
Ha!  what's  that?"  It  was  only  the  faint  sigh 
that  usually  precedes  sleep.  He  put  his  ear  to  the 
key-hole,  and  heard  a  low,  regular  breathing.  "  So 
soon  gone  ?  And  she  sleeps  like  an  infant.  Would 
that  I  —  but  that 's  folly." 

Fialto's  thoughts  now  took  a  rapid  flight  to  long 
past  and  almost  forgotten  scenes ;  and  Rosalia, 
Monaldi,  and  his  purpose,  all  seemed  to  have  van- 
ished from  his  mind,  when  the  chiming  of  the  last 
quarter  brought  him  back  to  the  present. 

"  Dare  I  trust  myself  now,"  thought  he,  after  a 
pause  ;  "  dare  I  venture  to  look  at  her  ?  And  why 
not  ?  Are  not  all  my  passions  bagged  in  Maldura's 
purse  ?  —  I  will  look  at  her." 

There  is  a  majesty  in  innocence  which  will 
sometimes  awe  the  most  reprobate.  As  Fialto 


MONALDI.  181 

stood  by  the  bed,  a  strange  sensation  came  over 
him,  and  something  like  compunction  crossed  his 
brain;  but  it  sunk  not  deeper  —  for  nothing  of 
like  nature  had  reached  his  heart  for  many  years ; 
and  the  feeling,  whatever  it  was,  passed  off  in 
words. 

"  How  like  death,"  said  he,  "  to  all  around  her  p 
and  yet  how  living  in  herself.  And  her  thoughts — 
how  they  play  over  her  face ;  to  her,  perhaps,  they 
are  the  parts  of  a  world  —  a  world  all  her  own. 
Pity  she  should  ever  wake  to  another.  That  smile, 
I  never  saw  but  one  like  it."  Some  early  recollec- 
tion here  probably  crossed  his  mind,  and  he  turned 
away.  "  Curse  thee,  Maldura,  for  a  villain  in  es- 
sence !  Wert  thou  starving,  like  me,  there  might 
be  some  excuse.  But  I  —  I  am  starving;  and 
that 's  enough.  Nay,  suppose  I  were  weak  enough 
to  forego  this  exaction  of  my  necessities,  would 
those  eyes  ever  deign  to  drop  a  tear  for  me  after  I 
am  gone  ?  No,  her  precious  morality  would  bid 
her  rejoice.  Yes  ;  and  the  most  moral  world  too 
would  all  join  her ;  ay,  all."  Fialto's  evil  genius 
here  touched  the  right  chord ;  for  nothing  makes 
vengeance  so  indiscriminate  as  the  consciousness 
of  being  generally  hated.  "  Yes,  they  would  tram- 
ple on  my  grave,  and  make  a  jest  of  the  dead 
libertine.  But  I  '11  spoil  their  sport  for  the  present. 
16 


182  MONALDI. 

Ha !  the  signal !  "  At  that  moment  the  spy's  gui- 
tar was  heard  from  the  street.  Fialto  immediately 
raised  the  window,  and,  throwing  out  his  disguise, 
let  down  the  ladder  of  ropes.  This  was  hardly 
done  when  he  heard  a  cautious  step  ascending  the 
staircase.  He  then  slipped  off  his  coat,  and  took 
his  station  beside  the  bed,  till  hearing  the  step  ap- 
proach the  door,  he  awoke  Rosalia.  In  the  same 
instant  Monaldi  burst  into  the  room.  Rosalia 
shrieked,  and  Fialto,  springing  to  the  window,  in 
the  next  moment  was  in  the  street. 

"  Mercy  !  oh,  mercy  !  "  cried  Rosalia,  throwing 
herself  at  Monaldi's  feet,  whom  the  confusion  of 
her  terror  made  her  mistake  for  a  robber. 
r  "  Ay,  strumpet !  "  said  he,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
articulate,  "  more  than  you  have  shown  to  me." 
So  saying,  with  a  frantic  laugh,  he  plunged  his 
dagger  into  her  bosom.  She  fell  back  with  a 
groan,  and  her  blood,  spirting  up,  covered  hig 
hands.  A  horrible  silence  now  followed,  and  Mo- 
naldi stood  over  her,  as  if  a  sudden  frost  had  stif- 
fened his  face  and  figure  in  the  very  expression 
and  attitude  with  which  he  gave  the  blow. 

Rosalia  had  been  stunned  by  the  fall ;  but  the 
flowing  from  her  wound  soon  brought  back  her 
senses ;  she  looked  up,  and  for  the  first  time  re- 
cognised her  husband.  "  Merciful  heaven  !  you  — 


MONALDI.  183 

from  you  !  "  The  blow  now  reached  her  soul,  and 
she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Oh,  Mo- 
naldi  —  why  have  you  done  this  ?  " 

"Repent — repent,"  said  he,  moving  away. 

"  Stay,  oh  stay  !  "  cried  Rosalia,  with  a  pierc- 
ing energy. 

"  What  would  you  ?  " 

"  Much.  But  look  at  me  —  I  am  your  wife, 
Monaldi." 

"  Wife  !  Never.  But  I  have  forgiven  it.  You 
are  nothing  to  any  one  now  but  —  to  Him  who 
made  you.  Look  to  it,  then  —  waste  not  your 
limited  hour  on  one  you  never  loved." 

"  Never  loved  —  whom  ?  " 

"  Oh,  woman,  cannot  death  make  thee  honest  ? 
Me ! " 

"You! — oh,  Monaldi.  But,  ha!  there  must 
be  something — yet  my  brain  is  so  confused  —  that 
man  —  it  was  not  a  dream  ;  no,  I  was  awake. 
Tell  me  —  who  siezed  me  just  now  in  the  bed  ?  it 
could  not  have  been  you." 

"  Oh,  hardened  to  the  core  !  Rosalia,  know  you 
that  you  are  dying  ?  " 

"  Too  well  —  I  feel  't  is  my  last  hour." 

"  Repent  then." 

"  Oh,  tell  me,"  said  Rosalia  —  "  't  is  too  late  — 
I  am  very  faint ; "  and  she  sunk  back  exhausted. 


184  MONALDI. 

Monaldi  now  looked  on  her  with  a  compassion 
that  made  him  shudder ;  for,  base  as  he  thought 
her,  he  felt  as  if  he  could  give  his  heart's  blood  to 
save  her  soul.  "  No,"  said  he,  "  she  must  not  die 
so."  Then,  hastily  making  a  bandage  with  his 
handkerchief,  he  succeeded,  with  some  difficulty, 
in  stanching  the  wound.  In  a  few  minutes  her 
strength  returned. 

«  Thank  God  !  there  may  yet  be  time  ;  I  '11  for 
a  surgeon  ;  "  and  he  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
leave  the  room. 

But  Rosalia  perceiving  it,  with  a  violent  effort 
threw  herself  forward,  and,  clasping  his  knees, 
locked  them  with  an  agony  that  shook  his  whole 
frame. 

"  Why  is  this  ?  "  said  Monaldi ;  "  why  trifle 
thus  ?  Make  your  peace  with  heaven." 

"  Heaven  is  merciful ;  be  thou  so  too.  No, 
my  husband,  you  are  not  cruel ;  this  last  act  shows 
it  —  you  have  bound  up  the  wound,  and  bless  you 
for  it.  Then  deny  me  not  —  but  tell  me  —  why 
was  this  deed  ?  Oh,  speak." 

"  And  you  do  not  know  ? " 

"  As  I  have  hope  of  heaven." 

"  Woman  !  "  said  Monaldi,  shaking  her  off  with 
horror,  "  thou  standest  even  now  in  presence  of  the 
Eternal ;  darest  thou  then  lie  ?  " 


MONALDI.  185 

"  I  do  not  lie  — before  heaven,  I  do  not." 

"  Horrible  !  And  you  know  not  perhaps  him  I 
found  here  ? " 

"As  God  is  my  judge.  I  was  asleep  when  he 
seized  me,  and  that  seemed  at  the  very  instant  you 
entered." 

"  Yet  you  asked  for  mercy  —  " 

"  My  terror  confounded  me,  and  I  supposed  you 
both  robbers." 

"  Know  you  then  that  writing  ?  "  It  was  Fial- 
to's  letter. 

Rosalia  took  the  letter,  and,  glancing  at  the  sig- 
nature, for  a  moment  seemed  convulsed  with  emo- 
tion ;  but  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  and  she  read 
it  through  with  steadiness.  She  then  calmly  placed 
it  beside  her,  and  attemped  to  kneel,  but  her 
strength  failing  her,  she  could  only  clasp  her  hands 
and  raise  her  eyes  to  heaven. 

"  I  murmur  not,"  she  said  —  "I  murmur  not, 
oh,  Father,  that  thou  hast  been  pleased  to  permit 
this  work  of  darkness  against  me  ;  for  thou  art  all- 
wise  as  thou  art  good.  And  not  for  myself  do  I 
now  call  on  thy  name  —  thou  knowest  that  I  am 
guiltless  —  but  for  him  I  leave.  Spare  him,  mer- 
ciful Being ;  impute  not  this  blow  to  him ;  for 
even  now  he  repents  it ;  and,  oh  spare  him,  in  thy 
great  mercy,  when  he  shall  know  my  truth,  when 
16* 


1 86  MONALDI. 

he  shall  find  too  late  that  the  love  I  bore  him  had 
only  thee  for  its  sharer  —  that,  but  for  thy  grace, 
it  had  been  idolatry.  Oh,  spare  him  then,  for  he 
will  need  thy  mercy." 

Monaldi  listened  as  she  spoke,  like  one  in  a 
trance  ;  he  lost  not  a  word,  and  they  fell  on  his 
heart  like  arrows  of  fire  ;  for  so  comes  truth  when 
it  comes  too  late  ;  yet  he  neither  spoke  nor  moved, 
as  if  the  agony  of  conviction  had  brought  with  it 
a  doubt  whether  the  falsehood  he  had  believed 
were  not  less  intolerable. 

Rosalia  now  turned  to  him,  and  in  a  feebler, 
though  still  unbroken,  voice  continued.  "  Monal- 
di, hear  me,  for  the  hand  of  death  is  upon  me.  I 
die  innocent  —  innocent  of  all  but  too  much  loving 
thee.  Your  deed  —  'tis  my  last  prayer  —  may 
God,  as  I  do,  forgive  it.  You  were  greatly  tempt- 
ed ;  for  the  seeming  proof  of  my  guilt  could  not 
be  stronger.  Why  it  was  contrived,  only  the 
Searcher  of  hearts  can  tell ;  for  I  know  not  an 
enemy  that  we  have.  Yet  that  you  or  I  have  — 
and  a  deadly  one  —  is  sure.  But  him,  too,  I  for- 
give." 

"  No  ! "  said  Monaldi,  in  a  voice  of  anguish, 
"  never  could  a  wanton  so  speak  !  " 

"  Now,  oh,  now,"  said  Rosalia,  "  I  die  in  peace  ; 
you  believe  me." 


MONALDI.  187 

"  I  do,"  he  cried,  straining  her  to  his  bosom, 
"  with  my  whole  soul !  Oh,  Rosalia,  my  wife — " 
but  he  could  not  go  on  ;  for  though  his  eyes  were 
dry,  a  convulsive  sobbing  choked  his  utterance. 

"  Nay,  my  husband,  do  not  take  it  so  to  heart. 
Think  of  my  hopes  —  of  my  blessed  change.  Oh, 
no  —  death  has  no  sting  for  a  Christian." 

"Death!"  cried  Monaldi,  starting  up  — 
"  death  ! "  The  word  seemed,  as  it  were,  to 
explode  in  his  brain,  and  his  head  whirled.  Then 
came  fearful  imaginings,  and  with  them  a  confused 
rush  of  the  past,  mingling  with  the  present. 

Rosalia  now  felt  her  strength  fast  ebbing ;  but 
her  heart  still  clung  to  her  husband,  and  she  beg- 
ged that  she  might  die  in  his  arms.  He  made  no 
answer  ;  she  called  to  him  again  —  but  he  was 
talking  to  the  air. 

"  Dead  !  dead,  did  you  say  ?  No,  she  lives.  — 
But  what 's  here  ?  These  accursed  hands  —  look, 
Rosalia  —  see  the  heart  they  tore  from  you.  Red, 
red  —  it  beats  ;  look,  look,  how  it  leaps  !  No ; 
you  shall  not  go  —  speak  to  me  —  ha,  gone  !  now 
now  I  have  you  again." 

"  His  brain  wanders  !  " 

"  Ha  !  it  speaks  —  strange  !  strange  !  " 

"  Save  him,  oh,  save  him  ! "  cried  Rosalia.    She 


188  MONALDI. 

could  add  no  more  ;  her  head  sunk  upon  her 
shoulder,  and  her  eyes  closed. 
r  "  Who  brought  it  here  ?  "  said  Monaldi,  shrink- 
ing from  the  body  ;  "  't  is  cold.  Let  the  bones  be 
buried,  though  Fialto's  ;  they  should  not  lie  on  the 
ground.  Landi,  why  are  you  here  ?  Oh,  't  is  you, 
Rosalia  —  so  you  stabbed  him  !  Well !  —  ha !  ha ! 
very  well.  How  he  bleeds !  Blood  !  blood  !  Give 
me  your  hand.  Nay,  that's  bloody  too.  But 
hark  !  those  bloody  daggers  —  don't  you  hear 
them  ?  "  look  ;  there  are  a  thousand.  Monstrous  ! 
they  fight  in  the  air  —  they  follow  us  !  Oh,  save 
her  !  save  her !  "  he  cried,  with  a  piercing  shriek, 
and  rushed  from  the  chamber. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FIALTO  had  been  returned  about  an  hour,  and 
was  deliberating  whether  to  call  on  Maldura  then 
or  to  wait  till  morning,  when  Antonio,  livid  and 
breathless,  staggered  into  the  room. 

"  How  now !  "  said  the  Count,  somewhat  start- 
led at  his  appearance.  "  What  brings  you  here  ? 
speak,  man  —  what  makes  you  look  so  like  a  thing 
dug  up?" 

"  She  's  dead,"  said  Antonio. 

"Who  is  dead?" 

"  She,  my  mistress." 

In  spite  of  Fialto's  hardness  he  felt  a  twinge  at 
his  heart.  "  Poor  thing !  "  said  he,  after  a  short 
pause.  "  This  is  more  than  I  bargained  for.  But 
how  was  it,  Antonio  ? " 

"  That  is  more  than  I  know,"  replied  Antonio. 
"  All  I  can  tell  is,  that  about  one  o'clock,  just  as  I 
had  fallen  asleep,  I  was  suddenly  roused  by  a 
frightful  shriek  —  such  another  I  never  heard. 
What  it  might  be,  never  entered  my  head ;  for  I 


190  MONALDI. 

was  so  confused  that  I  had  quite  forgotten  your 
plot,  and  what  was  likely  to  come  of  it ;  so  I  sprang 
out  of  bed,  and  ran  to  the  staircase.  Holy  Fran- 
cesco, how  he  looked !  " 

"Who?" 

"My  master — his  face  and  hands  bloody,  and 
his  eyes  so  wild  —  the  great  lamp  was  burning  in 
the  corridor,  and  I  saw  him  rush  past  it." 

"  Come,  leave  crossing  your  lizard's  liver,"  said 
Fialto,  "  and  go  on." 

"I  have  done,"  answered  Antonio:  "he  was 
gone  before  I  could  reach  the  corridor. 

"  Dolt !  your  mistress  —  how  know  you  she  is 
dead?" 

"  I  entered  her  chamber  with  the  other  servants, 
whom  the  same  noise  had  brought  from  their  beds. 
She  was  lying  on  the  floor,  and  — " 

"  Enough,"  said  the  Count,  "  I  have  other  busi- 
ness for  you  now." 

"  I  hope,"  stammered  Antonio  —  "I  hope  't  is 
nothing  like — " 

A  look  from  Fialto  cut  short  the  sentence.  "  I 
must  hence  to-night,"  said  he,  "  so  I  shall  want 
horses  :  look  to  it  that  they  are  in  readiness  within 
an  hour.  In  the  meantime  I  will  see  Maldura. 
Do  you  hear?  within  an  hour." 

"  His  hands  bloody  !  "  said  Fialto,  after  Antonio 


MONALDI.  191 

left  him.  "Then  the  deed  was  his.  I  did  not 
think  the  painter  had  so  much  of  the  devil  in 
him.  Maldura  said  he  was  all  milk ;  that  he 
would  part  and  pine,  but  never  dare  shed  blood. 
Had  he  been  a  fool  it  might  have  been  so ;  but 
there  is  no  trusting  your  gentle  tempers  where 
there 's  a  spark  of  genius :  they  are  like  quiet 
waters  over  volcanoes.  Thou  art  a  precious  hell- 
hound, Maldura !  Yet  I  might  have  foreseen  this, 
for  I  have  known  such  men  —  but  I  did  not. 
Well,  't  is  done  ;  and  —  let  it  go.  C&o  there  's  anj 
end  on  't." 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THERE  are  some  men  who  can  daily  await,  and 
even  count  the  hoars  up  to,  a  threatened  bereave- 
ment, with  little  discomposure  ;  not  so  much  from 
want  of  feeling  as  from  a  constitutional  repug- 
nance to  the  admission  of  any  definite  form  to  a  fu- 
ture evil ;  they  know  it  will  come,  but  it  is  virtually 
a  mere  name  so  long  as  they  possess  the  present. 
Yet  there  is  a  moment  when  the  present  and  fu- 
ture may  be  said  to  unite,  and  to  produce,  like  the 
mingling  of  light  and  darkness,  a  kind  of  twilight 
image  of  both :  't  is  in  the  last  counted  hour.  As 
in  grief,  so  it  is  in  guilt :  and  so  was  it  with  Mai- 
dura.  Whilst  his  revenge  was  maturing,  he  had 
watched  its  progress  with  a  moody  quietness ;  but 
now  that  the  deadly  fruit  was  ripe,  and  he  saw  it 
hanging  by  the  last  fibre,  ready  at  the  breath  of 
the  next  minute  to  drop  into  his  hand,  he  could 
not  help  shrinking  back  with  a  fearful  misgiving  of 
its  bitterness. 

He  had  retired  to  bed  at  his  usual  hour.     But 


MONALDI.  193 

he  had  closed  his  eyes  and  composed  his  limbs  in 
vain  ;  he  could  not  sleep  ;  the  tide  of  his  thoughts 
was  not  to  be  stopped,  neither  could  he  force  them 
into  other  than  the  troublous  channel  they  had 
taken  ;  they  still  rushed  on  in  spite  of  his  will ;  till, 
wearied  and  maddened  by  his  fruitless  efforts,  he 
sprang  out  of  bed.  He  then  dressed  himself,  and, 
taking  a  book,  began  to  read  aloud ;  but  the  sounds 
he  uttered  conveyed  no  meaning  to  his  brain. 
At  last  the  clock  struck  one  —  the  half  hour  — 
two.  "  'T  is  over  !  "  said  he,  throwing  the  book 
from  him.  "  Fool !  torment  yourself  no  longer 
for  what  is  past  recall.  Pshaw  !  this  shaking  is 
mechanical  —  the  coward  body.  Well,  here  's  a 
remedy  for  that,"  seizing  a  goblet  of  wine.  "  Yes, 
the  soul  is  still  firm ;  as  it  should  be  in  triumph. 
Ay,  triumph  ;  for  revenge  —  what  is  it  ?  A  mere 
speculation  ?  a  freak  of  the  mind,  beginning  in  a 
day-dream,  and  ending  as  it  began  —  in  nothing? 
Has  it  not  relation  to  time,  place,  object  ?  and  can 
a  thing  unreal  hold  such  relation  ?  No.  'T  is  then 
a  reality  ;  if  so,  can  it  come  of  nothing  ?  No  ;  't  is 
a  consequence  of  something.  What  then  is  that 
something  ?  —  Injury  !  Let  the  Monaldis  then 
blame  themselves.  If  they  would  know  the  cause 
of  my  revenge,  let  them  remember,  that  she  reject- 
17 


194  MONALDI. 

ed  me  —  that  he  supplanted  me.  Tush  !  no  more 
of  this." 

With  such  wretched  sophistry  did  Maldura  en- 
deavor to  silence  his  conscience,  when  Fialto  en- 
tered. 

"  Nay,  start  not,"  said  the  Count,  as  Maldura 
drew  back  to  let  him  pass  ;  "  't  is  your  good  ge- 
nius —  the  best,  I  '11  be  sworn,  in  your  whole  cal- 
endar of  devils.  What,  dumb  ?  No  greeting  for 
your  faithful  Abaddon  —  your  plenipotentiary  to 
the  powers  below  ?  Why,  man,  you  look  as  if  I 
had  actually  come  thence,  and  brought  with  me 
an  atmosphere  unpolite." 

"  You  have  license,  Count,"  observed  Maldura, 
"  to  speak  of  yourself  as  you  please." 

"  And  of  you  too,  I  hope." 

"  You  come,  I  suppose,  to  tell  me  the  aflair  is 
over." 

"  A  word  first,"  said  Fialto.  "  I  take  it,  Mal- 
dura, you  are  a  man  of  honor  ?  " 

"  Why  that  question,  sir  ?  " 

"  Because  it  often  happens,  that  when  a  pupil 
first  enters  Lucifer's  school,  he  thinks  it  regular  to 
begin  in  the  lowest  forms,  such  as  lying,  word- 
breaking,  cheating,  &c." 

"  Fialto,"  interrupted  Maldura  fiercely,  "  if  I 
thought  you  dared  suspect  me  —  " 


MONALDI.  195 

"  Not  so  hot,  man.  I  suspect  no  one.  I  only 
wish  to  be  sure  of  my  ground." 

"  Well,  sir,  what  is  your  drift  ?  " 

"  Merely  to  know  if  you  mean  to  abide  by  your 
contract." 

"  Dare  you  doubt  it  ?  " 

"You  know  I  dare  anything.  But  you  have 
well  spoken  ;  and  I  do  not  doubt  you.  Now  to 
business.  The  draughts  on  your  banker  at  Bo- 
logna, I  think,  are  already  signed  ?  " 

"  There,  sir  ;  look  at  them." 

"  Right.  But  there  were  five  hundred  sequins 
in  gold  for  present  expenses.  Ah,  they  are  in  this 
bag.  All  right." 

"  To  a  baiocco,  sir,"  said  Maldura. 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,"  said  the  Count,  sweeping 
the  gold  and  bills  from  the  table.  "  And  thus 
ends  my  diplomacy  ;  for  the  game  is  up,  and  the 
wages  of  sin  are  won  !  " 

Though  Maldura  had  anticipated  this,  and 
thought  himself  prepared,  he  needed  all  his  pride 
to  conceal  the  numbing  horror  that  now  seized  him. 
JT  is  over  then,"  said  he,  faintly  ;  «  well  —  "  but 
he  could  not  proceed. 

"  Ha  !  he  quails,"  said  Fialto  to  himself.  "  'T  is 
well ;  he  shall  shake  yet  to  his  midriff  for  putting 


196  MONALDI. 

me  on  this  cursed  business.  But  how  's  this,  my 
gallant  principal  —  you  don't  seem  to  rejoice  ?  " 

"You  don't  know  me,"  replied  Maldura,  en- 
deavoring to  force  a  laugh  ;  but  the  sound  only 
rattled  in  his  throat. 

"  Ay,  that  was  a  merry  laugh,  but  rather  too 
dry.  You  should  drink,  man  ;  joy  is  thirsty  by 
nature  —  especially  of  the  grim  breed.  There, 
pledge  me  now  in  a  reeling  bumper  to  the  black 
knight  of  revenge." 

"  'T  is  sweet !  "  said  Maldura,  emptying  the 
goblet,  and  assuming  an  air  of  hardihood. 

«  What  ? " 

"  Revenge." 

"  Oh,  delicious,  no  doubt.  But  I  hav  'nt  given 
you  the  particulars." 

"  Why,  no  matter  for  them  now ;  't  is  enough 
that  the  affair  is  over." 

"  As  you  please.  But  there 's  one  thing  I  must 
touch  on.  There  was,  I  think,  an  additional 
clause,  a  kind  of  codicil  to  our  contract  —  that  if 
your  friends  parted,  the  reward  was  to  be  doubled. 
Was  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  It  was  ;  but  you  cannot  claim  that  yet" 

"  Suppose  I  could  ?  You  remember  you  are  a 
man  of  honor." 


MONALDI. 


197 


"  You  may  see  I  have  not  forgotten  it,"  answer- 
ed Maldura,  producing  another  draught. 

"  'T  is  mine  then,"  said  Fialto,  seizing  it. 

"  Impossible  ! " 

"  Then  impossibilities  have  come  to  pass." 

"  Count  Fialto,"  said  Maldura,  rising.  "  I  doubt 
you  trifle  with  me." 

"  In  honorable  earnest,"  replied  Fialto,  care- 
lessly. "  They  parted  exactly  at  one  o'clock  ; 
that  is,  if  Antonio's  watch  be  right." 

"  Parted  !  and  you  know  it  so  soon  ?  " 

"  Even  so  ;  and,  what 's  better,  so  parted,  that 
all  the  priests  in  Christendom  could  never  reunite 
them." 

"  How  !  what  mean  you  ?  " 

"  The  woman 's  dead  —  that 's  all." 

«  Dead  ! " 

"  Ay,  dead  as  Santa  Rosalia  herself.  Glorious  ! 
is  n't  it  ?  What,  dumb  with  joy  ?  I  thought  you 
would  be,  and  kept  it  for  a  bonne  bouche  that 
would  send  its  savor  to  your  very  heart.  But  that 
is  not  all  —  the  best  is  to  come;  she  was  mur- 
dered —  murdered  too  by  her  milksop  husband  !  " 

Maldura  staggered,  and  fell  back  into  his  seat. 

"  Ha  !  "  continued  Fialto,  advancing,  and  rais- 
ing his  voice,  "  why  don't  you  laugh  —  shout  ? 
Hey  ?  shout  —  dance,  sing  io  triumphe,  man  !  for 
17* 


198  MONALDI. 

the  deed  is  done  past  all  undoing  ;  ay,  done,  and 
bruited,  and  chronicled  too  by  this  time  in  all  the 
infernal  gazettes ! " 

">  Monster  ! "  exclaimed  Maldura,  recoiling  from 
him." 

"  Which  of  us  !  " 

"  Leave  me,  fiend  !  —  blasted  be  the  hour  that 
brought  us  together." 

"  What,  ho  !  did  you  think  to  raise  the  devil, 
and  expect  him  to  leave  his  work  half  done  ?  I 
thought  you  knew  him  better ;  for  I  never  saw  one 
who  looked  and  talked  so  like  his  cater-cousin. 
Marvellous  !  Why,  you  were  wont  to  brood  over 
this  precious  plot  like  some  dark  hell-bird  in  the 
incubation  of  an  imp  ;  and  now  that  the  thing 
is  hatched,  you  shrink,  and  turn  craven  before 
your  own  offspring." 

"  Begone,  villain  !  "  cried  Maldura,  starting  up, 
and  moving  to  a  distance. 

"  Softly,  my  worthy  compeer,"  said  the  Count. 
"  Devil  as  often  as  you  please  ;  but  my  honor 
brooks  no  vulgar  appellation  of  earth." 

"  Leave  me  then,  devil !  and  curse  me  no  more 
with  your  hateful  presence." 

"Hateful!  What,  hateful  to  Maldura?"  said 
Fialto,  with  a  sneer.  "  Then  I  must  be  above  him. 
On  my  life,  this  is  supposing  me  to  have  reached 


MONALDI.  199 

an  elevation  in  iniquity  to  which  I  never  dared 
aspire.  But  you  do  yourself  injustice.  Why,  1 
am  but  a  thing  of  clay  —  a  mere  receptacle  of  ap- 
petites ;  and,  evil  though  they  be,  they  are  yet 
human  ;  in  other  words,  I  'm  a  man  —  bad,  if  you 
will,  but  too  gross,  too  material,  to  be  named -with 
—  what  shall  I  call  thee  ?  The  very  sentiment, 
the  idea,  the  unimpassioned  essence  of  sin  !  If  I 
prey  on  others,  I  only  transfer  something  from 
their  needs  to  my  own ;  if  I  deceive,  't  is  only  for 
a  craved  advantage  ;  and  if  I  pull  down,  't  is  only 
to  build  up  for  myself;  so  that  nothing  is  lost.  In 
short,  my  utmost  scope  is  barely  to  anticipate  time, 
and  now  and  then,  perhaps,  to  forestall  fortune  in 
her  eternal  mutations.  But  thou  —  thou  art  above 
profiting  by  thy  actions  ;  for  thou  deprivest  for  the 
pleasure  of  bereaving  —  destroyest  for  the  gust  of 
destruction  ;  in  a  word,  thy  sins  find  their  end  in 
nothing,  and  vanish,  like  abstractions,  in  the  dark, 
joyless  abyss  of  thy  soul." 

Maldura,  trembling  with  rage,  unsheathed  his 
dagger  —  but  guilt  had  cowed  him ;  he  stood  a 
moment  irresolute,  and  the  weapon  dropped  from 
his  hand. 

"  I  would  that  I  could  pity  thee,"  said  Fialto, 
observing  the  action  and  fixing  his  eye  on  the  dag- 
ger ;  "  but  —  pah  !  my  soul  sickens  at  a  coward." 


200  MONALDI. 

"  Ruffian  !  robber !  "  screamed  Maldura,  snatch- 
ing up  the  dagger,  and  rushing  on  him  with  fury. 

"Another  step,"  said  the  Count,  presenting  a 
pistol,  "  and  your  brains  shall  spatter  these  walls." 

Maldura  retreated  a  few  paces,  and,  seizing  a 
chair,  with  a  horrible  execration,  dashed  it  in 
shivers  against  the  wall.  "  Thus  !  thus  !  "  said 
he,  "  shall  it  be  with  thee  !  Remember  the  nun  I " 

"  Dost  thou  threaten  ? "  replied  Fialto,  advanc- 
ing ;  then  stopping  short —  "  No,"  he  added,  "  I 
will  not  hazard  my  life  by  taking  thine  in  this 
place.  Besides,  thy  menace  is  too  impotent  to 
claim  a  thought ;  my  secret  is  safe  enough  in  thy 
cowardly  keeping.  The  nun  wants  no  better 
guard  than  the  ghost  of  Rosalia  ;  they  are  now 
leagued  ;  summon  the  one,  then,  and  raise  the 
other  —  if  thou  darest.  Ha  !  does  the  name  of 
Rosalia  shake  thee  ?  How  then  wilt  thou  stand  it 
when  all  Rome  shall  couple  it  with  thine  —  her 
destroyer?  That  thou  art  so,  and  without  ben- 
efit to  thyself,  is  why  I  hate  thee.  As  for 
my  part  in  the  business  —  I  acted  in  my  need, 
and  under  thee,  thou  superlative  tempter !  so 
the  world  would  not  waste  a  curse  on  me.  But 
what  tempted  thee  ?  Oh,  I  forgot  —  thou  art  a 
poet.  Well,  thou  hast  reached  the  ideal  of  sin  ; 
and  I  give  thee  joy  of  thy  bloody  chaplet." 


MONALDI.  201 

"  Leave  me,  or  poniard  me,  unmerciful  dog  !  " 
cried  Maldura,  in  a  voice  hoarse  and  scarcely  arti- 
culate. 

"Thou  shall  have  thy  wish,"  said  Fialto,  turn- 
ing contemptuously  towards  the  door.  "  But  I 
leave  thee  this  advice,  Maldura  :  Ride  not  wide  of 
Rome.  Should  we  meet  again  at  Radicoffani,  my 
stilletto,  perhaps,  may  do,  for  once,  some  service 
to  the  world."  So  saying,  he  left  the  house,  and 
a  moment  after  the  clatter  of  hoofs  gave  notice  of 
his  departure. 

As  the  sounds  caught  his  ear,  Maldura  felt  as  if 
there  was  one  fiend  less  to  tug  at  his  heart ;  but 
the  relief  was  transient,  for  another  minute  brought 
their  echoes  to  his  brain,  hurrying  him  back  in 
memory  to  his  first  meeting  with  Fialto  —  then 
from  place  to  thought  —  from  thought  to  word, 
and  plot,  and  action  —  through  their  whole  horri- 
ble meanderings  to  his  present  hell.  His  agony 
now  became  choking,  and,  grasping  his  throat  as 
though  he  would  tear  it  open,  he  thought  he  would 
give  the  world  for  a  groan  ;  but  even  that  was 
denied  him,  and  he  fell  on  the  floor  without  utter- 
ing a  sound. 

Thus  ended  this  compact  of  sin.     It  could  not  ) 
have  ended  otherwise  ;  for  there  is  no  sympathy 
in   evil,  whose    natural    consequence    is    hatred. 


202  MONALDI. 

Yet  the  evil  may  not  hate  themselves ;  if  they  do 
not,  however,  't  is  only  because  of  that  instinctive 
sophistry  with  which  the  mind  is  ever  ready  to  de- 
fend itself  from  whatever  is  painful ;  but  the  delu- 
sion is  limited  to  themselves  ;  for  the  vices  of 
others  they  have  a  clear-sightedness  which  even  the 
minutest  deformities  cannot  escape.  Indeed,  evil 
is  but  another  name  for  moral  discord  ;  its  law, 
revulsion ;  and  its  final  issue  the  shutting  up  the 
i_  soul  in  impenetrable  solitude. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


WHEN  Antonio,  with  his  fellow  servants,  entered 
his  mistress's  apartment  and  saw  her  weltering  in 
blood,  and  stretched,  apparently,  lifeless  on  the 
floor,  he  was  too  much  shocked  at  the  part  he  had 
borne  in  her  catastrophe  to  wait  for  a  second  look, 
but,  concluding  her  dead,  availed  himself  of  the 
general  confusion  to  slip  away  and  convey  the  in- 
telligence to  his  employer.  The  consternation  of 
the  other  domestics  may  easily  be  imagined  ;  but, 
fortunately,  there  was  one  amongst  them,  an  aged 
housekeeper,  who,  on  removing  the  body,  and  per- 
ceiving it  still  warm,  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
send  for  a  surgeon.  In  the  mean  time  Rosalia 
was  put  into  a  warm  bed,  and  such  other  restora- 
tives being  applied  as  are  usual  in  similar  cases, 
she  soon  began  to  show  symptoms  of  life.  Imme- 
diately after,  the  surgeon  arrived.  "  One  minute 
more,"  said  he,  "and  I  should  have  been  too  late." 
He  then  proceeded  to  probe  the  wound,  when, 
drawing  a  long  sigh,  Rosalia  opened  her  eyes. 


204  MONALDI. 

On  further  examination,  the  surgeon  pronounced 
her  wound  a  flesh  one  ;  but  she  had  suffered  so 
much  from  loss  of  blood,  he  observed,  that  nothing 
but  the  utmost  care  and  absence  of  all  excitement, 
could  possibly  save  her.  He  then  ordered  the 
room  to  be  cleared,  and  enjoined  that  on  no  ac- 
count she  should  be  allowed  to  speak.  This  last 
injunction  became  necessary  in  consequence  of 
several  ineffectual  attempts  she  had  made  to  in- 
quire after  her  husband.  The  surgeon  further 
added,  on  catching  the  word  husband,  and  con- 
necting it  with  certain  surmises  which  had  been 
hinted  to  him  of  Monaldi's  concern  in  the  affair, 
that  he  would  recommend  it  to  her  not  to  see  any 
one  —  "  not  excepting  even  her  husband."  Rosa- 
lia answered  with  an  imploring  look,  but  the  surgeon 
observing,  that  her  life  depended  on  her  obedience 
in  this  particular,  she  was  obliged  to  acquiesce. 
For  the  same  reason  the  interdiction  was  also  ex- 
tended to  her  father.  It  was  with  great  difficulty, 
however,  that  Landi  could  be  prevailed  on  to 
forego  seeing  his  daughter  ;  but  the  surgeon  was 
peremptory,  and  he  was  forced  to  obey.  It  was 
fortunate  for  Rosalia  that  the  knowledge  of  her 
husband's  absence  was  thus  kept  from  her  ;  Mo- 
naldi  having  disappeared,  and  gone  no  one  knew 
whither ;  as  to  his  insanity,  the  few  incoherent 


MONALDI.  205 

words  he  had  uttered  previous  to  her  fainting,  had 
either  passed  from  her  mind,  or,  considered  merely 
as  the  effect  of  violent  emotion,  were  little  heeded. 

We  left  Maldura  in  a  state  of  misery  only  to  be 
conceived  by  the  guilty,  or  by  those  to  whom  a 
holy  abhorrence  of  sin  reveals  its  frightful  nature. 
It  was  in  vain  he  summoned  the  casuistry  which 
had  hitherto  supported  him  in  the  contemplation 
of  crime.  It  came  now,  as  formerly,  and  with  a 
sound  of  might,  but  it  spent  itself  like  the  wind 
against  a  solid  rock ;  for  he  had  now  to  do,  not 
with  hypothesis,  but  a  based  reality,  darkening  the 
present,  and  stretching  its  long  shadow  into  the 
future.  Before  the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose 
his  life  had  seemed  a  burden,  and  he  would  have 
welcomed  death  as  a  release  from  trouble ;  but 
now,  though  the  burthen  was  heavier  and  more 
galling,  the  thought  of  death  only  filled  him  with 
dismay,  and  he  shrank  from  it  as  the  traveller 
shrinks  from  an  abyss  whose  edge  his  foot  feels  in 
the  dark,  but  whose  depth  neither  his  eye  nor  his 
imagination  can  fathom. 

Thus  will  the  sense  of  guilt  sometimes  cow  the 
proudest  philosophy.  The  atheist  may  speculate, 
and  go  on  speculating  till  he  is  brought  up  by  an- 
nihilation ;  he  may  then  return  to  life,  and  reason 
away  the  difference  between  good  and  evil ;  he 

18 


206  MONALDI. 

may  even  go  further,  and  imagine  to  himself  the 
perpetration  of  the  most  atrocious  acts ;  and  still 
he  may  eat  his  bread  with  relish,  and  sleep  soundly 
in  his  bed  ;  for  his  sins  wanting,  as  it  were,  sub- 
stance, having  no  actual  solidity  to  leave  their 
traces  in  his  memory,  all  future  retribution  may 
seem  to  him  a  thing  with  which,  in  any  case,  he 
can  have  no  concern ;  but  let  him  once  turn  his 
theory  to  practice  —  let  him  make  crime  palpable 
—  in  an  instant  he  feels  its  hot  impress  on  his  soul. 
Then  it  is,  that  what  may  happen  beyond  the 
grave  becomes  no  matter  of  indifference ;  and, 
though  his  reason  may  seem  to  have  proved  that 
death  is  a  final  end,  then  comes  the  question : 
what  does  his  reason  know  of  death  ?  Then,  last  of 
all,  the  little  word  if,  swelling  to  a  fearful  size, 
and  standing  at  the  outlet  of  his  theories,  like  a 
relentless  giant,  ready  to  demolish  his  conclusions. 
But  Maldura's  sufferings  were  now  to  be  sus- 
pended, for  the  report  of  Rosalia's  recovery  at  last 
reached  him.  This  unlooked-for  intelligence  was 
followed  by  a  spasm  of  joy  scarcely  to  have  been 
exceeded  had  he  been  suddenly  reprieved  from  an 
ignominious  death.  He  felt  like  one  emerging 
from  the  hopeless  darkness  of  a  dungeon  to  the 
light  and  free  air  of  day  ;  and  though  the  hope 
which  had  once  sustained  him  was  gone  forever, 


MONALDI.  207 

and  he  had  nothing  to  look  to,  he  yet  began  to 
fancy,  and  even  to  feel,  without  stopping  to  ask 
why,  that  his  former  relish  of  life  was  now  return- 
ing. But  his  respite  was  short.  It  was  natural 
that  release  from  a  great,  though  only  imagined, 
evil  should  render  him  for  a  time  less  sensible  to 
such  as  were  minor  and  actual ;  but  they  were 
light  only  from  comparison,  and  no  sooner  did  the 
weight  of  the  former  begin  to  pass  from  his  mem- 
ory, than  the  pressure  of  the  latter  became  more 
perceptible,  till  at  last,  in  spite  of  every  effort  to 
resist  them,  they  became  the  subjects  of  his  daily 
and  hourly  contemplation. 

Amongst  these,  the  sorest,  and  that  which  time 
rather  added  to  than  diminished,  was  the  destruc- 
tion of  Monaldi's  peace,  perhaps  of  his  life ;  for 
Monaldi  had  never  been  heard  of  since  the  fatal 
night,  and  whither  he  had  gone,  or  what  had  be- 
come of  him,  was  still  uncertain. 

Whilst  Maldura  believed  himself  injured,  and 
the  victim  of  the  world's  injustice,  he  gave  him- 
self up  to  a  moody  sullenness,  either  shut  up  at 
home,  or  brooding  in  darkness  in  the  solitude  of 
ruins.  But  now  that  his  sufferings  were  occasion- 
ed by  his  own  crimes  their  effect  was  different. 
He  became  restless ;  deserting  his  former  haunts, 
and  mixing  with  the  world  ;  visiting  every  place  of 


208  MONALDI. 

public  amusement,  giving  entertainments,  and  form- 
ing new  acquaintance;  then,  tiring  of  these,  he 
would  change  his  abode,  engage  in  new  diversions, 
and  collect  new  associates ;  then  he  would  remove 
to  another,  then  run  the  same  round,  till  that  was 
exhausted  ;  then  to  another,  then  from  city  to  city, 
from  village  to  village,  wandering  and  journeying, 
day  and  night,  and  seeking  and  catching  at  every 
kind  of  object,  however  insignificant,  that  might,  if 
possible,  draw  his  thoughts  from  himself:  and  such 
is  the  last  object  of  guilt ;  for  novelty  while  pursued 
is  the  world's  substitute  for  hope ;  when  possessed, 
its  opiate  for  remorse  —  the  opiate  indeed  of  a  mo- 
ment—  yet  for  that  moment  will  the  guilty  toil 
more  intently  and  desperately  than  in  their  days  of 
innocence  for  the  promise  of  heaven. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  wanderings  that  Maldura, 
returning  towards  Naples,  in  company  with  a  party 
of  pleasure,  was  separated  from  his  companions 
by  a  circumstance  of  no  uncommon  occurrence. 

The  day  had  begun  sultry,  but  was  now  closing, 
after  a  refreshing  shower,  with  one  of  those  de- 
licious atmospheres  known  only  in  the  south ;  so 
sweet!  so  bright! — as  if  the  common  air  had 
suddenly  given  place  to  the  humid  sighs  of  answer- 
ing orange  groves  and  the  intermingled  breath  of 
enamored  flowers  —  as  if  the  dripping  trees  and 


MONALDI.  209 

fields  had  actually  been  flooded  by  liquid  gold 
from  the  sun ;  then  the  hum  of  insects,  the  twit- 
tering of  birds,  and  the  ceaseless  darting  of  innu- 
merable lizards,  so  filling  the  ear  and  eye  with 
sound  and  motion,  as  if  the  very  ground  and  air 
were  exulting  in  life !  Such  a  scene  was  not  for 
Maldura,  and,  trusting  to  his  horse  to  follow  in  the 
track  of  his  companions,  he  had  closed  his  eyes, 
when,  reaching  the  brow  of  a  hill,  a  general  ex- 
clamation from  the  company  made  him  look  up. 
"  Glorious  !  magnificent !  "  now  burst  from  one 
and  another.  It  was  the  bay  of  Naples ;  a  scene^ 
not  to  be  painted  by  words  —  even  though  its 
waters  were  likened  to  a  sea  of  sapphire,  its  moun- 
tains to  amethysts,  and  its  skirting  city  to  a  fillet 
of  snow ;  these  indeed  might  give  their  color,  but 
not  the  harmony  of  lines,  nor  the  light  and  shadow, 
nor  the  dazzling  expanse  —  and  never  the  living, 
conscious  joy  with  which  they  seemed  to  send  up 
their  shout  of  praise  to  the  immeasurable  depths 
above.  There  is  a  voice  in  nature  ever  audible  to 
the  heart  —  which  no  hardness  can  shut  out  —  and 
for  its  weal  or  wo,  as  the  heart  may  be.  Maldura 
heard  it  now  —  breaking  upon  him  like  a  clap  of 
thunder.  He  instinctively  turned  from  the  scene, 
and  looked  towards  Vesuvius.  But  even  from  that 
he  shrank ;  for  the  terrible  Vesuvius  was  now  smiling 
J8* 


210  MONALDI. 

in  purple,  and  reposing  beneath  his  pillar  of  smoke 
as  under  a  gorgeous  canopy:  the  very  type  of 
himself — gay  and  peaceful  without,  yet  restless 
and  racked  with  fire  within.  A  groan  was  rising 
to  his  lips,  but  a  resolute  effort  enabled  him  to  sup- 
press it ;  yet  dreading  to  trust  himself  any  longer 
to  the  observation  of  his  party,  he  hastily  dis- 
mounted, under  pretence  of  decyphering  a  half-ef- 
faced inscription  on  the  road,  and  bade  them  ride  on. 
His  companions  being  now  out  of  sight,  Maldu- 
ra  was  about  to  remount,  when  the  girth  of  his 
saddle  gave  way.  This  accident  made  it  necessary 
for  him  to  seek  assistance,  and  he  was  proceeding 
for  this  purpose  to  a  village  a  little  off  the  road, 
when  he  thought  he  descried  through  the  trees 
something  peeping  above  the  ruins  of  an  ancient 
tomb  like  the  roof  of  a  hut.  As  he  approached 
he  perceived  it  to  be  the  shed  of  a  half-demolished 
hovel ;  but  thinking  it  might  possibly  still  afford 
shelter  to  some  wandering  swine-herd,  he  fastened 
his  horse  to  the  branch  of  a  wild  fig-tree  that  grew 
out  of  a  crevice  in  the  ruin,  and,  walking  round, 
had  just  come  to  the  side  of  the  hut,  when  he 
heard  a  low  murmuring  sound  as  of  voices  within. 
He  stopped  a  moment,  doubting  if  it  were  safe  to 
enter;  should  he  encounter  robbers,  the  odds 
would  be  against  him.  Whatever  the  sounds 


MONALDI.  211 

might  proceed  from,  he  thought  it  at  least  but  pru- 
dent to  reconnoitre,  and  observing  a  rent  in  the 
wall  he  looked  through  it ;  but  he  could  only  per- 
ceive a  dark  heap  lying  in  a  corner,  and  something 
like  a  human  leg  thrust  from  beneath  it.  Being 
satisfied  that  he  had  nothing  to  fear,  Maldura 
entered.  On  a  nearer  view  the  heap  in  the  corner 
proved,  as  he  had  conjectured,  to  be  a  man  asleep. 
"Ho!  fellow!"  said  he;  "awake — I  need  your 
assistance."  With  a  languid  motion  the  figure 
turned  upon  his  back,  and  slowly  drawing  down 
the  dark  and  tattered  mantle,  that  enveloped  his 
head  and  body,  a  little  below  the  eyes,  appeared  to 
look  up.  Maldura,  catching  a  glimpse  of  his  ashy 
forehead,  as  it  gleamed  through  the  flakes  of  his 
long  black  hair,  bent  forward  to  see  if  the  man 
were  awake  ;  but  his  eyes  were  so  dark  and  sunk- 
en that  he  could  only  discern  two  bright  specks. 
"  Come,  rouse  thee,  fellow,"  said  he,  impatiently, 
"  I  want  your  aid."  The  man  made  an  effort  to 
rise,  and  the  garment  fell  from  his  face.  "  Monal- 
di !  "  exclaimed  Maldura,  recoiling  with  horror. 

"  Who  calls  me  ? "  said  the  other.  "  What  do 
you  want? — oh,  you  are  are  a  Sbirro.  But  you 
come  too  late  —  I  am  dead  —  ha  !  ha  !  You  can- 
not touch  me  now  !  " 

"  Fiend,  devil  that  I  am ! "  groaned  Maldura. 


212  MONALDI. 

"His  wits  are  gone  —  and  I  —  open  —  gape,  hell, 
and  swallow  me  !  *5 

"  Go,  go,"  said  the  maniac. 

"  I  will,  I  will,"  cried  Maldura,  "  and  rid  you 
of  a  monster ! "  So  saying,  he  rushed  from  the 
hovel,  when,  stumbling  over  a  loose  stone,  he  fell 
to  the  ground.  He  sprang  upon  his  feet  again, 
but  the  accident  had  given  a  moment  for  reflec- 
tion. "  No ! "  he  said,  while  a  multitude  of 
thoughts  passed  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning 
through  his  brain.  "No  —  I  will  still  endure  the 
torturing  sight  —  though  it  transform  me  to  the 
like  —  and  endure  it,  if  possible,  to  save  him." 

This  resolution  calmed  him  in  an  instant ;  but 
it  was  not  till  after  a  considerable  time  that  he 
could  summon  sufficient  fortitude  to  return  to  the 
hut.  When  he  did  so  he  found  Monaldi  again 
covered  and  seemingly  asleep.  On  lifting  the 
mantle,  however,  he  perceived  that  he  was  still 
awake  —  but  so  exhausted,  either  by  disease  or 
famine,  that  he  could  no  longer  move. 

As  Maldura  beheld  the  ravages  which  misery 
had  so  rapidly  made  on  his  late  happy  friend,  and 
gazed  upon  the  livid  remains  of  his  noble  counten- 
ance, the  gaunt  and  angular  outline  of  his  once 
graceful  form,  he  felt  that  he  had  need  of  all  his 
courage  to  hold  to  his  resolution. 


MONALDI.  213 

"  Horrible  ! "  said  he,  turning  away  with  a  suffo- 
cating feeling.  "  But  this  is  no  time  even  for  re- 
morse—  he  must  not  lie  here."  Then  hastily 
quitting  the  hut,  and,  vaulting  on  the  bare  back  of 
his  horse,  he  set  off  at  full  speed  for  the  village. 

It  was  now  the  first  time  since  Maldura  left 
Florence  that  anything  like  a  feeling  of  self-ap- 
probation had  even  glanced  on  his  heart ;  for  now, 
in  spite  of  his  remorse,  the  consciousness  of  per- 
forming a  duty  forced  a  passage  to  his  breast ; 
and  feeble  as  this  was  —  even  as  the  thread  of  light 
that  ravels  its  way  through  hundreds  of  fathoms  of 
darkness  to  the  half  quenched  eye  of  the  con- 
demned miner  —  it  yet  seemed  to  cheer  his  heart 
almost  with  hope. 

Having  ordered  such  accommodations  as  the 
village  post-house  afforded,  Maldura  returned  with 
assistance  to  the  hovel,  and  soon  saw  his  wretched 
friend  comfortably  lodged. 

A  messenger  was  then  despatched  for  a  physician, 
but,  there  being  none  nearer  than  Naples,  it  was 
near  midnight  before  he  arrived.  The  apparently 
exhausted  maniac  had  in  the  meantime,  through 
the  mistaken  indulgence  of  his  attendants,  been 
suffered  to  gorge  himself  with  food.  This  brought 
on  a  lethargy,  then  suffocation  and  spasms,  ending 
in  a  frightful  paroxysm  of  raving  ;  in  the  height  of 
which  the  physician  entered, 


214  MONALDI. 

The  agony  of  Maldura  during  this  scene  had  be- 
come almost  insupportable  ;  but  when  the  physician 
observed  that  the  injudicious  treatment  of  the 
patient  was  the  probable  cause  of  his  frenzy,  and 
gave  hope  of  his  recovery,  he  dropped  senseless. 
He  had  borne  misery,  as  we  have  seen,  and  almost 
despair,  with  a  degree  of  firmness  ;  but  the  trans- 
ition of  the  latter  to  hope,  even  feeble  as  it  was, 
proved  too  much  for  him.  As  he  had,  however, 
only  fainted,  he  was  soon  revived,  when,  observing 
that  he  still  appeared  to  be  much  weakened,  the 
doctor  advised  his  going  immediately  to  bed. 

"  No,"  said  Maldura  —  "I  must  remain  where 
I  am,  though  the  sounds  I  hear  rive  me  like  fire 
from  heaven." 

"  Alack ! "  said  the  hostess,  who  was  then 
bathing  his  temples,  "  he  has  caught  the  other's 
madness." 

"  No,  woman,"  replied  Maldura  with  a  ghastly 
smile,  "  mine  is  from  hell." 

"  My  good  sir,"  said  the  physician,  "  this  is  no 
place  for  one  in  your  state  —  you  must  to  bed." 

"  Look  at  him,"  continued  Maldura,  turning 
towards  Monaldi,  and  without  regarding  the  speak- 
er—  "  look  at  that  human  ruin." 

The  maniac  now,  attempting  to  rise,  appeared 
first  to  discover  that  he  was  bound.  For  a  moment 


MONALDI.  215 

he  endeavored  to  free  himself  with  a  kind  of 
childish  impatience,  but  finding  himself  baffled,  he 
sent  forth  a  cry  so  shrill  and  piteous  that  the 
attendants  involuntarily  put  their  hands  to  their 
ears. 

"  Nay,  hear  it,"  said  Maldura,  who  alone  seemed 
to  listen  unmoved,  but  whom  the  sound  had  smote 
deeper  ;  "  hear  it  — '  tis  the  crash  of  a  wrecked 
mind  —  yet  even  that  —  even  him  I  envy  —  For 
what  is  his  state  to  mine  ?  No  —  the  world  can- 
not see  the  hell  from  which  my  spirit  looks  — 
nor  know  the  longing  with  which  it  strains  over 
the  gulf  between  us.  Bid  me  not  leave  him,  in 
the  fear  that  suffering  like  his  can  injure  me." 

Thus  did  the  pride  of  Maldura,  stony  and 
colossal  as  it  seemed,  fall  before  the  voice  of  con- 
science, even  as  the  walls  of  Jerico  before  the  horn 
of  Joshua. 

But  the  triumph  of  conscience  was  not  yet  com- 
plete. Though  his  presumption  was  gone,  and  he 
no  longer  sought  to  resist  or  evade  the  sense  of 
his  crime,  he  could  not  wholly  subdue  a  worldly 
feeling  of  shame  at  the  thought  of  appearing  des- 
picable in  the  eyes  of  others.  He  had  therefore 
no  sooner  given  vent  to  this  burst  of  remorse,  and 
perceived  its  effect  on  the  astonished  hearers,  than 
he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  sunk  into  the  earth. 


216  MONALDI. 

"  Poor  gentleman  !  "  said  the  landlady,  crossing 
herself  with  a  mixture  of  fear  and  compassion  — 
"  he  seems  to  have  some  terrible  sin  on  his  mind." 

"  Peace  woman  !  "  said  Maldura,  "  leave  the 
room." 

"  San'  Gennaro  protect  us  !  "  muttered  the 
hostess."  I  can  at  least  take  a  good  conscience 
away  with  me  —  which  is  more  than  I  shall  leave 
here." 

Whatever  the  physician  may  have  thought,  he 
was  prudent  enough  to  keep  it  to  himself;  he 
however  again  urged  Maldura  to  retire  ;  but,  find- 
ing him  still  obstinate,  he  left  his  patient  in  his 
charge,  promising  to  repeat  his  visit  at  an  early 
hour  the  next  day. 

This  was  the  first  penance  to  which  Maldura 
had  ever  brought  himself  to  submit.  And  never 
did  desperate  contrition  encounter  a  greater.  For, 
taking  his  station  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  keep- 
ing his  eyes  fixed  on  Monaldi,  he  scarcely  moved 
during  the  whole  night ;  and,  though  every  sound 
and  look  seemed  to  go  through  him,  he  still  con- 
tinued to  stand  listening  and  gazing,  hour  after 
hour,  till  the  wretched  maniac,  exhausted  by 
raving  and  the  violence  of  the  fever,  sunk  at  last 
to  sleep. 

The  day  was  already  far  advanced  before  the 


MONALDI.  217 

physician  arrived.  "  Your  friend,"  said  he,  turn- 
ing to  Maldura,  "  if  I  mistake  not,  will  awake  in 
his  senses :  it  may  be,  only  to  know  that  he  is 
dying ;  yet,  as  it  is  possible  he  may  recover,  we 
will  hope  for  the  best.  All  depends  on  the  strength 
of  his  constitution,  and  his  being  kept  quiet." 

Maldura  attempted  to  speak  —  "  My  dear  sir," 
continued  the  doctor,  perceiving  his  emotion,  "  I 
will  not  ask  if  you  wish  the  recovery  of  your 
friend ;  but,  if  you  do,  you  must  remain  here  no 
longer.  His  crisis  is  at  hand,  and  I  dare  not 
answer  for  the  issue  should  either  your  presence, 
or  any  other  cause  produce  the  least  agitation. 
"  Tis  not  for  your  sake,  but  his  —  "  "  No  more," 
said  Maldura,  "You  shall  be  obeyed.  But  when — " 
"  You  may  see  him  to-morrow,"  interrupted  the 
physician. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WHEN  Monaldi  awoke  the  next  morning,  his 
reason  was  returned ;  but  he  was  so  feeble  that 
his  attendants  could  only  perceive  it  in  the  change 
of  his  countenance.  The  sympathy  in  such  a 
transition  is  not  confined  to  friends  or  relatives ; 
for  there  is  no  species  of  calamity  more  univer- 
sally touching  than  madness,  and  no  joy  more  gen- 
eral than  that  which  follows  the  restoration  of  rea- 
son. Though  surrounded  by  strangers,  no  sooner 
did  Monaldi  open  his  eyes  and  begin  to  speak 
through  them  like  an  intelligent  being,  than,  with 
the  exception  of  his,  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  seen 
in  the  room ;  and  when  he  at  last  spoke,  and  in- 
quired where  he  was,  their  joy  became  so  tumult- 
uous that  the  physician  was  obliged  to  order  them 
away. 

This  is  but  one  instance  of  the  many  anomalies 
of  human  nature;  for  amongst  all  these  whose 
humane  sympathy  was  here  excited,  there  was 
scarcely  one,  perhaps,  who  might  not,  in  other  cir- 


MONALDI.  219 

cumstances,  have  easily  been  tempted  to  cheat,  or 
slander,  or  betray  the  very  object  of  their  present 
compassion. 

Whether  this  feeling  be  called  virtuous,  or  not, 
it  is  not  to  be  relied  on  as  any  evidence  of  good- 
ness. There  is  nothing  indeed  deserving  the 
name  that  is  not  equally  so  under  all  circum- 
stances;  an  integrity  which  principle  alone  can 
ensure ;  the  true  proof  of  which  is  where,  op- 
posed to  our  interest,  it  triumphs  over  self. 
And  yet  this  incidental  virtue  has  its  use,  nay,  it 
seems  to  be  a  common  providential  tax,  that  not 
even  the  bad  should  escape  adding  something, 
however  small,  to  the  general  stock  of  happiness ; 
for  even  the  most  selfish  must  be  limited  in  his 
conflicts,  and  find  thousands  about  him  to  whom 
he  may  be  kind  and  compassionate  without  the 
cost  even  of  a  calculation  ;  the  world  would  else 
be  at  a  stand,  and  the  mass  of  men  locked  up  in 
individual  jealousies  amidst  the  universal  barter  of 
benefits. 

When  the  Physician  had  pronounced  Monaldi 
out  of  danger,  and  he  had  so  far  recovered  as  to 
sit  up  and  converse  without  difficulty,  Maldura 
ventured  to  enter  his  chamber. 

"Is  it  you,  Doctor"  said  Monaldi,  for  the  dim 
light  of  the  room  prevented  his  seeing  distinctly. 


220  MONALDI. 

"  No,"  replied  Maldura  ;  "  the  doctor  is  in  Na- 
ples, and  will  not  return  before  to-morrow. 

"  Sure  I  should  know  those  tones,"  said  Monal- 
di,  reaching  forward,  "  and  yet  it  cannot  be. 
Who  is  it  then  ? "  Maldura  then  drew  nearer. 
"Blessed  Heaven!  Maldura!  But,  speak  —  is 
it  indeed  my  friend  ?  or  does  this  uncertain  light 
mock  me  ? " 

"  You  are  not  deceived,"  said  Maldura :  "  't  is 
even  he  whom  you  once It  is  Maldura." 

"  It  is  indeed ! "  said  Monaldi,  as  soon  as  his 
emotion  allowed  him  utterance.  "My  best,  my 
earliest  friend.  But  how  came  you  here  ?  Yet  I 
need  not  ask  ;  for  the  kindness  of  Maldura's  heart 
would  have  traced  me." 

Maldura  turned  away  and  covered  his  face  in 
agony ;  for  he  had  now  to  taste  the  bitter  draught 
of  praise  unmerited  —  of  praise  made  still  more 
bitter  in  coming  from  the  unsuspecting  victim  of 
his  own  villany. 

"  Nay,  do  not  weep,"  said  Monaldi,  mistaking 
the  cause  of  his  emotion.  "  I  seem,  it  is  true,  a 
sorry  spectacle,  but  that  is  nothing :  I  have  been 
snatched  from  death  —  and  more  —  I  am  restored 
with  reason.  Do  not  weep  then,  but  rather  re- 
joice, and  aid  me  in  giving  thanks  to  that  merciful 
Being  who  has  still  spared  me,  guilty  as  I  am." 


MONALDI.  221 

Maldura,  making  an  effort  to  collect  himself, 
again  took  the  hand  of  his  friend.  "Monaldi," 
said  he,  "I  would  pray  with  thee,  but " 

"  You  believe  not  1 "  said  Monaldi  mournfully. 
"  Alas,  I  had  hoped  that  your  early  opinions  had 
passed  away  with  the  vainglory  of  youth." 

"You  mistake  me,"  replied  Maldura,  "I 
thought  not  to  deny  your  request,  but  only  to 
defer  for  awhile " 

"  But  why  ?  "  interrupted  Monaldi.  "  Is  not 
praise  due  for  signal  mercy  ? 

"  Because  you  know  not  yet  the  full  measure  of 
that  mercy." 

"  What  mean  you  ? "  cried  Monaldi,  starting  up 
in  the  bed.  "Is  there  —  can  there  be  —  alas! 
no ;  the  world  is  nothing  now  to  me.  Yet  I  will 
not  repine  ;  for  this  is  mercy —  oh,  how  far  beyond 
my  deserts,  that  I  am  still  permitted,  though  with 
a  life  of  sorrow,  even  here  to  atone  for  that  ac- 
cursed deed.  But  I  speak  perhaps  of  what  to  you 
is  a  mystery."  Maldura  was  silent,  for  he  knew 
not  how  to  reply.  "  It  must  be  so,"  continued 
Monaldi,  "  else  you  would  not  be  here." 

"  Not  so,"  answered  Maldura. 

"  You  know  it  then  ?  " 

"But  too  well." 

"  And  yet,  because  your  friend  —  you  come  to 


222  MONALDI. 

comfort  a  murderer.  So  pure  yourself,  yet  so 
compassionate  of  guilt !  There  is  but  one  Maldu- 
ra." 

Maldura  only  replied  with  a  groan.  "  Would," 
he  thought,  "  there  were  never  one  !  " 

"  But  no,"  added  Monaldi ;  "  I  do  injustice  to 
your  principles.  You  come  to  call  him  to  repent- 
ance." 

"  No  —  you  need  not  —  at  least  in  the  degree." 

"  Say  not  so,"  cried  Monaldi ;  "  you  know  not 
the  damning  nature  of  my  crime.  The  guilt  of 
blood  is  on  me  —  that  were  enough  —  but  that 
blood  too  was  innocent.  Yet,  dreadful  as  is  this 
aggravation,  still  do  I  bless  Heaven  that  I  was  per- 
mitted to  know  it  ere  we  parted.  No,  Maldura, 
deeply  as  it  sinks  me  in  misery,  I  would  not  ex- 
change this  blissful  conviction,  wrought  as  it  was 
in  agony  and  blood,  and  breathed  into  my  soul  by 
her  dying  lips  —  for  all  the  joys  (might  even  my 
spirit  taste  them)  which  the  whole  world  could 
give." 

"  Thank  Heaven  !  "  thought  Maldura,  "  he  be- 
lieves her  innocent.  He  has  now  only  to  bear  the 
shock  of  joy." 

"  Doubt  you  then,"  continued  Monaldi,  "  that  I 
need  repentance  ? " 

"  I  do  not  doubt  —  though  I  repeat  my  words," 


MONALDI.  223 

"  I  cannot  understand  you." 

"  Nor  will  you  until  you  know  —  but  I  wander 
from  my  purpose." 

"  What  purpose  ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear.  But  have  you  courage  ?  Do 
you  think  you  could  bear — " 

"What?" 

"  The  fulness  of  joy." 

"  Oh,  torture  me  not,"  said  Monaldi,  grasping 
his  hand  with  violence.  "  A  dream  of  hope  has 
come  to  me  —  speak  quickly  —  for  I  fear  that  I 
could  not  survive  its  vanishing." 

"  Then,  live,"  said  Maldura,  "  for  your  wife  —  " 

"  Speak  ! "  said  Monaldi,  with  a  piercing  scream. 

"  She  lives  !  "  said  Maldura. 

Monaldi,  losing  his  hold,  fell  back  speechless  on 
the  bed.  Maldura  instantly  sprang  to  his  assist- 
ance ;  but  he  had  not  fainted.  "  Heaven  be 
praised  !  "  said  Maldura,  "  at  least  one  mountain  is 
off  my  soul." 

For  a  long  time  Monaldi  lay  without  word  or 
motion  ;  at  length,  drawing  a  deep  sigh,  he  gently 
clasped  his  hands,  and  raising  his  eyes  upwards, 
seemed  to  be  engaged  in  prayer.  His  wretched 
companion  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  bending  over 
it,  continued  in  that  posture  till,  overwhelmed  by 
the  sense  of  guilt,  he  sunk  exhausted  on  the 


224  MONALDI. 

floor.  This  was  the  first  prayer  that  Maldura  had 
uttered  since  his  days  of  childhood ;  and  the  con- 
sciousness that  it  was  so,  carried  his  thoughts  back 
over  a  dreary  and  long-forgotten  waste  of  years : 
no  wonder  then,  that  he  sank  appalled,  when,  at 
every  step,  some  buried  sin,  now  rising  up  before 
him,  added  to  the  long  array,  like  an  army  of 
spectres. 

"My  friend,"  said  Monaldi,  reaching  out  his 
hand,  "  come  near  me.  My  strength  has  return- 
ed." 

"  Blessed  be  God !  "  said  Maldura,  "  if  that  / 
might  say  so." 

Monaldi,  pressing  his  hand,  made  a  sign  to  him 
to  sit  by  the  bed.  "  I  am  strong  enough,"  said 
he,  "  to  hear  the  particulars.  How  was  it  ?  how 
did  she  survive  the  blow  ?  I  thought  I  saw  her 
die  —  but  my  reason  was  gone." 

Maldura  then  related  in  a  few  words  what  he 
had  gathered  from  report ;  and  concluded  by  tell- 
ing him  that  he  had  already  written  to  Rosalia  and 
her  father  to  acquaint  them  with  his  situation,  and 
that  he  had  since  despatched  another  messenger 
with  the  tidings  of  his  recovery. 

"  And  yet  her  ashy  cheek  —  the  leaden  eye, 
which  has  so  long  haunted  me,"  said  Monaldi, 
"  were  they  not  real  ?  Speak  to  me,  Maldura  — 


MONALDI.  225 

for  this  strange  place  —  all  I  have  heard,  seem  so 
like  a  dream." 

"  T  is  all  real,"  answered  Maldura. 

"  Mysterious  Providence,  how  dost  thou  watch 
over  and  baffle  the  sinner  for  his  good !  And  you 
saw.  her?" 

"  No.     I  said  not  that  I  saw  her  — " 

"  Nay,  then,"  interrupted  Monaldi,  with  a  dis- 
trustful look. 

"  But  I  had  the  account  from  your  family  sur- 
geon. I  think  his  name  is  Vannini." 

"  'T  is  true  then  !  "  cried  Monaldi,  "  the  whole 
world  would  not  make  me  doubt  it  now.  Bless 
him!  Oh,  Maldura  — "  He  stopped,  for  the 
fulness  of  his  joy  verged  to  pain,  for  a  minute 
almost  to  agony,  when  a  flood  of  tears  relieved 
him. 

"  Devil !  "  thought  Maldura,  "  and  I  would  have 
broken  this  heart." 

"Give  me  your  hand,"  said  Monaldi.  "Yes, 
't  is  real." 

The  touch  shot  maddening  to  Maldura's  brain. 
He  withdrew  his  hand,  and  covered  his  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter — are  you  ill  ?"  asked  Mo- 
naldi. 

"  Think  not  of  me,"  said  Maldura.  "  I  would 
have  but  one  thought — of  yourself." 


226  MONALDI. 

"  So  like  you  !  yourself  ever  last.  Then  be  it 
so.  You  tell  me  that  my  poor  wife  was  soon  re- 
covered. Did  she  —  yes,  she  forgave  me  —  she 
must  have  inquired  after  me." 

"  You  were  sought  after  through  every  town 
and  village.  Even  now,  I  believe  the  search  is 
continued." 

"  Thank  Heaven !  she  was  spared  that  shock. 
Had  she  discovered  me  at  one  time  —  Oh,  my 
friend,  you  know  not  what  I  have  suffered." 

"  But  too  well,"  thought  Maldura.  "  And  yet," 
he  added  aloud,  as  if  willing  to  take  from  the  load 
on  his  conscience,  "  the  loss  of  reason  must  have 
blunted  you  too  much." 

"  You  say  right.  What  I  endured  at  that  time 
I  know  not ;  't  is  now  but  a  dark  dream  to  my 
memory.  But  this  is  not  my  first  return  to  reason. 
I  had  a  lucid  interval  of  many  days  —  such 
days  !  —  No,  your  innocent  heart  cannot  even 
shadow  them  —  you  have  not  felt  remorse." 

"  I  must  bear  it,"  said  Maldura  to  himself. 
"  Then  let  it  come  —  all!  Goon." 

"  When  I  came  to  myself  I  awoke,  as  I  thought, 
with  a  sensation  of  extreme  cold.  I  was  lying  on 
the  snow,  on  one  of  the  desolate  ridges  of  the 
Apennines.  How  I  came  there  I  knew  not  —  and 
I  thought  I  was  dreaming ;  but  I  soon  found  that 


MONALDI.  227 

I  had  recovered  from  madness.  I  shuddered. 
Yet  my  recollections  of  it  were  dim  and  shadowy, 
and  they  passed  away.  Not  so  what  followed  — 
the  remembrance  of  the  night  which  sent  me  forth 
a  maniac  ;  my  poor  wife  —  murdered,  and  inno- 
cent —  yet  forgiving  her  murderer.  This  was  the 
misery,  Maldura.  I  had  taken  vengeance  upon 
me,  when  I  should  have  forgiven  even  my  deadli- 
est enemy.  I  was  a  murderer  of  one  who  loved 
me  !  No  —  you  must  first  know  remorse  to  know 
what  I  have  gone  through.  But  I  will  not  recall 
it." 

"  Nay,  on  —  I  would  know  all"  said  Maldura, 
whose  self-abhorrence  now  became  greedy  of  pen- 
ance. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  answered  Monaldi. 
'T  is  wholesome  for  the  mind  to  look  on  past  suf- 
fering—  and  most  so  when  happy.  And  I  —  't  is 
hardly  painful  to  recall  it  now.  But  one  instance 
is  enough.  About  sunrise  one  day  I  found  myself 
standing  on  the  edge  of  a  precipice  ;  I  looked 
down,  and  saw,  some  hundred  feet  below  me,  and 
rising  from  out  a  bed  of  mist,  a  multitude  of 
jagged  rocks.  On  the  peak  of  one  of  them  I  per- 
ceived something  white  ;  I  drew  nearer,  and  found 
it  to  be  the  skeleton  of  a  mule.  The  surest  foot, 
thought  I,  may  stumble  at  last.  It  seemed  a  type 


228  MONALDI. 

of  myself.  As  the  mist  cleared  away,  I  looked 
again,  and  a  little  lower  down  I  descried  the  bones 
and  tattered  garments  of  a  man.  The  skull  had 
fallen  from  the  body,  and  lay  grinning  upward  as 
if  in  mockery  of  my  horror.  Presently  it  appeared 
to  move  ;  a  moment  after,  a  small  snake  wound 
itself  out  of  one  of  the  eye-holes.  At  another  time 
this  would  have  made  me  shudder ;  but  I  now 
caught  at  it  with  a  perverse  avidity  :  it  seemed  to 
call  up  the  living  man  before  me.  I  saw  him  with 
all  his  innumerable  nerves,  and  those  sensitive 
messengers  speeding  with  the  abhorred  touch  of 
the  reptile  to  his  brain.  I  saw  his  hair  bristling 
with  terror,  and  heard  his  cry  echo  among  the 
rocks.  I  then  thought  of  his  form  in  death,  now 
blanched  and  mottled  with  weather-stains,  impen- 
etrable to  injury,  though  man  and  beast  were 
leagued  against  it,  though  the  mountain  I  stood 
on  should  topple  down  and  grind  it  to  powder.  A 
horrid  feeling  of  envy  gushed  from  my  heart.  I 
called  it  happy,  and  hung  over  it  with  a  kind  of 
furious  longing  —  gazing,  and  gazing  —  till,  me- 
thought,  something  —  I  know  not  what  —  seem- 
ed to  force  me  from  the  precipice,  and  I  fell  on 
my  knees.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  dared  to 
do  so." 

"  'T  was  for  me  to  have  envied  it !  "  said  Mai- 
dura,  thinking  unconsciously  aloud. 


MONALDI.  229 

"  You  ! "  exclaimed  Monaldi. 

"  Go  on,"  said  Maldura. 

"  I  know  not  how  long  I  continued  in  prayer," 
resumed  Monaldi,  "  but  when  I  arose  my  despair 
was  gone ;  my  remorse  was  now  changed  to  re- 
pentance. Then  followed  hope  —  such  hope  — 
oh,  my  friend,  as  only  the  broken  heart  can  know 
when  the  healing  comes  from  Heaven." 

"  But  such  as  mine,"  said  Maldura,  in  a  half- 
smothered  voice  —  his  heart  failed  him,  and  he 
stopped. 

Monaldi  continued.  "  How  my  reason  again 
wandered —  But  I  see  it  distresses  you.  We 
will  leave  the  past  then,  and  talk  of  the  future  — 
or  rather  of  the  present.  But  why  do  you  shake 
so,  and  look  so  pale  ?  Nay,  forgive  me  that  I  have 
asked  such  a  question  —  as  if  you  could  hear  my 
tale  unmoved.  Oh,  Maldura,  you  have  the  heart 
of  a  child." 

"  This  is  too  much,"  said  Maldura,  moving 
away  from  the  bed. 

"  Nay,"  said  Monaldi,  "  do  not  think  of  my 
sufferings  ;  they  are  passed.  Think  only  of  my 
present  happiness ;  for  I  know  not  the  mortal  with 
whom  I  would  now  exchange  lots.  Come,  my 
friend,  dwell  no  more  on  the  past,  but  think  of  the 


230  MONALDI. 

world  I  possess.     For  is  not  that  a  world,  beyond 
which  the  heart  has  no  craving  ?    And  what  more 
could  I  ask,  with  such  a  wife,  and  such  a  friend  ?  " 
"  You  never  had  a  friend,"  said  Maldura. 
"Never  had  !  "  repeated  Monaldi,  with  a  feel- 
ing rather  of  perplexity  than  astonishment.  "  Mal- 
dura, why  do  you  talk  so  wildly  ?  " 

Maldura  made  no  reply,  but,  returning  to  the 
bed,  drew  a  chair  near  it.  His  eyes  were  bent 
downward,  and  he  seemed  inwardly  struggling 
with  some  violent  emotion.  "  'T  is  done  !  "  he 
said  at  last,  while  a  flush  of  gloomy  satisfaction 
passed  over  his  brow  :  "  the  proud  neck  bends  to 
the  yoke." 

"  Whose  neck  ?  "  asked  Monaldi. 

"  Monaldi,"  said  Maldura,  without  heeding  the 
question,  "  you  said  you  believed  your  wife  inno- 
cent. On  what  was  your  faith  founded  ?  " 

"  On  her  own  words." 

"  On  nothing  more  ?  " 

The  faint  color,  which  the  excitement  of  the 
moment  had  brought  to  Monaldi's  cheek,  now 
suddenly  gave  place  to  a  corpse-like  whiteness. 

"  'T  is  even  as  I  thought,"  said  Maldura  to  him- 
self; "another  fiend  might  rekindle  his  suspicions 
with  a  breath."  And  he  repeated  the  question. 


MONALDI.  231 

"  Wherefore  do  you  ask  ?  "  said  Monaldi. 

"  You  shall  know.  But  answer  me.  Had  you 
no  other  ground  of  faith  ?  " 

"Tliey  were  her  dying  words  —  at  least  so 
thought  she  as  well  as  I.  I  needed  no  more." 

"  And  would  they  serve  you,  think  you,  as  a 
lasting  panoply  ?  And  you  —  would  no  insinua- 
tion, no  future  circumstance  touch  you  with 
doubt?" 

"  I  think  —  nay,  I  know  they  would  not.  Yet 
why  —  oh,  do  not  torture  me  —  but  if  you  know 
aught  —  speak  at  once." 

"  You  have  said  enough,"  replied  Maldura,  "  to 
determine  my  course.  You  would  not  again  mur- 
der, for  your  heart  is  changed ;  but  for  the  rest  — 
Monaldi,  you  need  more  than  your  wife's  words  ; 
and  you  shall  have  it.  You  believe — but  /  know 
her  to  be  innocent." 

"  You ! " 

"  You  shall  have  proof  which  you  cannot  doubt. 
Listen  —  You  first  saw  Fialto  in  your  gateway  ? " 

"  Fialto !    How  know  you  —  " 

"  No  matter.     Answer  me." 

« I  did  so." 

"  You  saw  him  then  almost  daily  in  Romero's 
shop,  or  sauntering  by  your  house  ;  looking  up  at 
your  windows,  and  always  seeming  confused  when 


232  MONALDI. 

detected.  Next  you  met  him  at  the  theatre  — 
then  as  you  were  returning  home  near  your  house." 

Monaldi  listened  with  amazement.  "Good 
heaven !  you  could  have  learnt  these  particulars 
only  from  the  wretch  himself." 

"  You  will  know  how  I  came  by  them.  Had 
not  you  a  servant  called  Antonio  ? " 

«  Yes." 

"  He  was  a  creature  of  Fialto's.  Through  him 
his  employer  became  apprized  of  all  your  move- 
ments —  your  visit  to  the  theatre  —  your  projected 
journey  to  Genezzano :  this  last  intelligence  sug- 
gested the  letter,  which  was  put  into  your  hand, 
as  if  by  mistake.  You  were  addressed  as  Gieu- 
seppe  —  " 

"  Monstrous  ! " 

"  Ay  —  there  are  devils  that  walk  the  earth 
even  now.  But  listen.  Then  followed  the  last 
damning  proof.  The  effect  of  the  letter  was  anti- 
cipated—  it  needed  but  little  knowledge  of  man 
to  have  done  it  —  your  suppressing  it ;  your  feign- 
ed journey  ;  your  return.  Accordingly  Fialto  was 
prepared  to  meet  you,  the  wretch  Antonio  having 
admitted  and  secreted  him  at  an  early  hour  in 
your  dressing-room." 

"  Enough,"  cried  Monaldi ;  "  I  need  no  more." 

"  Nay,  I  must  through.     Your  approach  was 


then  announced  by  a  preconcerted  signal  from  one 
who  had  dogged  you  from  Rome,  and  back.  Soon 
after,  your  step  being  heard  on  the  stairs,  Fialto 
stole  forth  from  the  closet ;  you  were  at  the  door  ; 
he  sprang  towards  the  bed,  and  seized  your  sleep- 
ing wife." 

"  Merciful  heaven !  that  human  malice  should 
have  so  pursued  me  !  " 

"  Was  it  not  a  web  worthy  of  fiends  ?  " 
"Horrible!" 

"You  had  been  unlike  man  to  have  broken 
through  it." 

"  The  frightful  scene  still  makes  me  shudder. 
But,  tell  me  —  what  was  the  motive  for  this  cruel 
villany  ? " 
"  Revenge." 

"  Revenge  !  —  for  what  ?  I  had  never  injured 
him.  I  knew  not  even  the  name  of  Fialto  till  we 
met  in  the  theatre." 

"  Think  not  of  him ;  he  was  but  the  instrument 
—  and  a  fit  one  too,  for  his  name  alone  were 
enough  to  blast  the  peace  of  any  house  he  might 
enter.  What  he  did  was  for  that  with  which  hell 
is  paved  —  for  gold." 

"  Of  whom  speak  you  then  ?  " 
"Of  the  devil  that  employed  him  —  to  whose 
20* 


234  MONALDI. 

black  and  envious  soul  the  libertine  Fialto's  seems 
almost  bright ;  of  one  who  hated  you." 

"  Hated  me  !  I  have  never  harmed  living  crea- 
ture, knowingly." 

f  "  Know  you  not  then  that  virtue,  genius,  suc- 
cess, are  all,  to  the  evil  mind,  causes  of  hatred  ? 
You  doubt  it.  Oh,  the  pure  in  heart  are  slow  of 
faith  in  evil.  But  you  shall  have  proof  —  living 
proof.  Do  not  interrupt  me.  There  was  a  time 
when  you,  Monaldi,  were  but  one  of  the  multitude. 
You  may  recall  it  if  you  look  back  to  your  days  of 
boyhood  —  to  the  school  at  Bologna.  You  were 
then  deemed  one  of  little  promise  —  next  to  no- 
thing. No  doubt  your  quiet  and  retired  habits  led 
to  the  opinion  ;  but  so  it  was  —  and  the  opinion 
was  general.  You  may  remember  too  the  reputa- 
tion which  I  then  held  ;  your  own  estimation  of 
my  talents  ;  that  of  our  masters  ;  of  the  whole 
school.  I  stood  alone  —  the  first  —  without  a  rival. 
Could  there  have  been  a  greater  contrast  ?  No. 
The  general  voice  had  placed  us  at  opposite  ex- 
tremes :  and  I  thought  it  just.  Yet,  because  of 
your  praise,  I  courted  your  acquaintance.  Your 
confiding  heart  readily  opened  to  receive  me,  and 
—  in  an  evil  hour,  you  called  me — friend." 
L  "  Stop  !  "  cried  Monaldi,  convulsively  grasping 
Maldura's  arm ;  for  a  suspicion  of  the  truth  now 


MONALDI.  235 

flashed  upon  him,  and  his  horror  became  intoler- 
able. 

"  'T  will  soon  be  over,"  replied  Maldura. 

"  I  cannot  hear  it,"  said  Monaldi  —  "I  must 
not." 

"  I  must  on,"  answered  Maldura  ;  "  for  the 
finger  of  Power  is  upon  me  —  and  I  cannot  choose 
but  speak."  Then,  averting  his  face  and  looking 
from  Monaldi,  he  continued  with  increasing  rapid- 
ity. "  Elated  with  praise,  full  —  nay,  drunk  with 
hope  —  and  sure  of  fulfilling  every  early  predic- 
tion —  I  began  my  career.  But  I  will  not  go  over 
the  horrible  ground  —  at  every  step  I  sunk  —  lower 
and  lower  —  'till  —  yes,  I  must  speak  it  —  till  my 
very  name  was  blurred  with  the  common  mass. 
What  followed  then  ?  Envy  and  loathing  of  all 
above  me." 

Monaldi  groaned.  "  Impede  me  not,"  said 
Maldura,  hurrying  onward,  "  but  listen.  I  now 
return  to  you.  What  was  then  your  course  ?  From 
obscurity,  neglect,  almost  from  contempt ;  when 
no  one  even  thought  of,  dreamt  of  such  a  being  — 
with  the  suddenness  of  a  meteor  you  burst  upon 
the  world.  In  a  moment  all  eyes  were  upon  you 
—  every  tongue,  every  heart  was  yours.  How  think 
you  I  heard,  saw,  felt  all  this  ?  —  how  beheld 
this  fame  —  this  boon  of  the  world,  for  which  alone 


236  MONALDI. 

I  had  coveted  life  —  snatched  from  my  grasp,  and 
lavished  unmeasured  on  the  very  man  with  whom 
my  proud  spirit  would  have  once  disdained  to  con- 
tend ?  I  cursed  you  from  my  heart." 

Monaldi  gasped  for  breath. 

Maldura  continued.  "  You  can  now  understand 
my  greeting  when  we  first  met  in  Rome  —  why, 
knowing  your  voice,  I  fled  from  the  gate-way  — 
why  I  rejected  your  daily  kindnesses  —  why  almost 
spurned  your  last  generous  proffer.  But  your  fame 
was  not  all  that  haunted  and  goaded  me  ;  though 
I  could  not  forgive,  I  should  yet  have  endured  it 
in  silence.  Your  reputation  was  followed  by  an- 
other offence  still  deadlier  to  my  pride :  you  sup- 
planted me  in  my  love.  For  in  my  days  of  hope 
I  had  loved  your  wife  —  had  offered  my  hand  — 
and  been  rejected.  You  afterwards  saw  and  won 
her.  This  was  the  blow  that  felled  me.  The  news 
of  your  marriage  passed  through  my  heart  like 
lightning,  scathing  every  human  feeling  —  and  I 
swore  by  my  misery  that  I  would  blast  your  hap- 
piness." 

Monaldi's  teeth  chattered  as  with  an  ague  :  his 
hands  were  crossed  upon  his  breast,  his  head  sunk 
between  his  shoulders,  and  his  whole  body  drawn 
up  as  if  under  the  influence  of  terror  ;  yet  his 
eyes  remained  fastened  on  Maldura,  as  though  a 


MONALDI.  237 

fearful  charm  made  it  impossible  to  withdraw  them. 
But  Maldura  saw  not  —  thought  not  of  this  effect 
of  his  disburthening  conscience  ;  his  thoughts  were 
on  himself,  and,  his  eyes  turned  from  Monaldi  to 
the  opposite  wall,  he  continued  to  speak  like  one 
impelled  by  the  rack.  "  It  was  for  this  purpose  I 
sought  Fialto.  'Twas  I  —  /  was  his  employer. 
'Twas  J  caused  him  to  hang  about  your  house  — 
to  waylay  you  from  the  theatre  —  to  write  the 
letter.  Yes,  it  was  I —  "  repeated  Maldura,  when, 
with  a  terrific  shout,  Monaldi  leaped  from  the  bed. 
"  Avaunt  fiend  !  " 

Maldura  stood  aghast. 

"  Back  !  back  to  hell !  "  vociferated  Monaldi. 

"  Yes,  I  deserve  it,"  said  Maldura,  —  "  Hell  is 
my  place.  Even  now  "  — 

"  What 's  your  name  ? " 

"  Is  it  —  can  it  be  !  "  said  Maldura  —  "  Heaven 
forbid.  Do  you  not  know  me  !  'T  is  I  - —  Mal- 
dura." 

"  You  Maldura  ! "  cried  the  maniac,  with  a 
scornful  laugh.  Maldura' s  hair  rose  with  horror. 
"  Thou  liest !  Maldura  was  my  friend  —  he  was 
honest,  righteous.  He  had  no  wings  as  thou  hast. 
Avaunt,  devil ! " 

"  'T  is  over  ! "  said  Maldura,  clasping  his  hands 
in  agony  —  "  my  measure  is  full  —  "  and  he  rushed 
from  the  chamber. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


"  WHERE  —  which  way  ?  Show  me  to  him,"  said 
Rosalia. 

"  Be  patient,  my  child,"  said  her  father.  We 
must  not  be  abrupt.  So  sudden  a  meeting  might 
prove  fatal.  Let  us  wait  till  our  good  hostess  has 
apprized  him  of  our  arrival." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  the  landlady  ; 
"  though,  I  should  think,  the  better  person  for  this 
office  would  be  his  friend,  Signer  Maldura." 

"  True,"  observed  Landi.  "  But  first,  tell  me  — 
How  is  he  ?  " 

The  landlady  then  related  the  particulars  of 
Monaldi's  illness,  and  was  just  concluding  with  an 
account  of  his  entire  recovery,  when,  pale  and 
ghastly,  Maldura  entered. 

"  Horrible  ! "  said  Maldura,  drawing  back  at  the 
sight  of  Landi.  "  His  wife  too  —  Monster!  now 
am  I  doubly  cursed  !  " 

"  Speak  !  What 's  the  matter  ?  "  exclaimed 
Rosalia  and  Landi  in  the  same  breath. 


MONALDI.  239 

"  You  will  know  but  too  soon,"  replied  Maldura, 
retreating  towards  the  door. 

"  For  mercy's  sake  !  "  cried  Rosalia.  "  Stop, 
tell  —  " 

"  Stay  me  not,"  said  Maldura  in  a  choaking 
voice  —  "  there  's  a  curse  about  me."  So  saying, 
he  dashed  open  the  door,  and  ran  with  frantic 
swiftness  from  the  house. 

If  it  be  hard  to  part  with  the  dead,  and  to  see 
one  borne  to  the  grave  with  whom  we  have  been 
accustomed  to  associate  all  our  wishes  and  schemes 
of  happiness,  and  without  whom  nothing  in  life 
seems  capable  of  imparting  enjoyment,  there  is 
yet  a  consolation  in  the  thought  that  our  grief  is 
only  for  our  own  suffering,  since  it  cannot  reach 
one  to  whom  our  loss  is  a  gain.  What  then  must 
it  be  to  feel  this  entire  avulsion  from  the  living ;  to 
know  that  the  object  with  whom  our  very  soul  was 
mixed,  and  who  is  thus  parted  from  our  common 
being,  still  walks  the  same  earth,  breathes  the  same 
air,  and  wears  the  same  form  ;  yet  lives,  as  to  us, 
as  if  dead  —  closed,  sealed  up  from  all  our  thoughts 
and  sympathies,  like  to  a  statue  of  adamant.  What 
must  it  be  to  know  too  that  this  second  self,  though 
callous  and  impenetrable  from  without,  is  yet  within 
all  sense  ?  The  partial  palsy-death  of  the  body 
is  but  a  faint  image  of  this  half-death  of  the  twin- 


240  MONALDI. 

being  wife  and  husband.  And  Rosalia  soon  felt  it 
in  all  its  agony. 

The  alarm  occasioned  by  this  last  scene  was  so 
sudden  that  neither  father  nor  daughter  thought 
more  of  first  making  known  their  arrival,  but,  fol- 
lowing the  landlady,  entered  Monaldi's  chamber. 
He  was  sitting  on  the  bed,  his  hands  clenched  on 
his  knees,  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  Rosalia 
sprang  forward,  but  at  the  sight  of  his  countenance 
she  shrunk  back  and  stood  gazing  on  him  in  silence. 
And  next  to  madness  was  the  dreadful  conviction 
within  her.  She  would  have  folded  him  in  her 
arms  ;  but  the  thought  of  the  touch  of  the  be- 
numbed, vacant  being  before  her  sickened  her,  and 
she  sunk  back  in  her  father's  arms.  But  she  had 
not  fainted :  the  energy  of  hope  that  he  might 
again  recover,  came  like  a  ministering  spirit,  and 
nerved  her  for  the  occasion. 

"  You  must  go  with  me,"  said  Landi. 

"  No,"  replied  Rosalia,  in  a  low,  but  firm,  voice  ; 
"  I  am  his  even  in  madness.  Do  not  fear  for  me  ; 
the  shock  is  now  over.  But,  speak  to  him."  Landi 
then  advancing  spoke  to  him  by  name  ;  but  Monaldi 
making  no  answer,  he  drew  nearer  and  took  his 
hand.  For  a  moment  Monaldi  turned  to  look  at 
him,  then  withdrawing  his  eyes  as  if  with  terror  — 
"  away,  away  !  "  he  cried.  "  Why  come  you 


MONALDI.  241 

again  ?  thou  liest  —  Maldura  did  not  do  it  —  't  was 
I  murdered  her.  Look  —  look  at  her  —  't  was  I  — 
she  was  my  wife  —  she  '11  confess  it  herself.  But 
no,  she  cannot  —  she  's  dead." 

"  No,  she  lives  —  she  is  still  yours  !  "  cried  Ro- 
salia, going  to  him. 

"  Ha !  there  are  two !  "  cried  the  maniac  with  a 
frightful  shriek.  "  Take  them  away  —  I  did  not 
murder  both." 

The  father  and  daughter  stood  silent  and  mo- 
tionless ;  their  very  breath  seemed  suspended  ;  and 
for  several  minutes  not  a  sound  was  heard  but  the 
quick,  low  panting  of  the  affrighted  maniac.  Lan- 
di,  alarmed  for  the  reason  of  his  daughter,  drew 
her  into  another  room,  when  she  fell  on  his  neck 
and  wept.  But  we  close  the  scene  ;  for  we  can- 
not describe  that  which  no  tears  relieved  —  even 
that  blessed  dew,  which,  in  most  other  cases,  soft- 
ens agony. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 


LITTLE  now  remains  to  be  told  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Monaldi.  He  was  taken  home  by  his  friends, 
and  every  means  used  to  restore  his  reason ;  but 
without  effect.  He  would  remain  for  days  togeth- 
er, fixed  in  one  spot,  with  his  eyes  bent  on  the 
ground,  and  without  speaking,  or  appearing  con- 
scious of  what  was  passing  about  him.  Whilst  in 
this  state  nothing  could  rouse  him  but  the  voice  of 
his  wife,  which  never  failed  to  bring  on  a  paroxysm 
of  raving,  when  he  would  sometimes  fancy  himself 
Fialto,  then  Maldura,  but  more  often  that  he  was 
one  among  the  dead,  and  that  Rosalia  had  come 
to  upbraid  him  ;  for  he  had  in  some  way  or  other 
connected  her  image  with  a  spirit. 

This  was  a  bitter  aggravation  to  Rosalia's 
wretchedness,  since,  by  forcing  her  to  avoid  him, 
it  deprived  her  of  her  last  melancholy  pleasure, 
that  of  administering  to  his  comforts.  Her  strug- 
gle was  long  and  severe,  before  she  could  bring 


MONALDI.  243 

herself  to  quit  him ;  she  at  last,  however,  consent- 
ed to  remove  to  her  father's.  But  nothing  could 
prevail  with  her  to  forbear  visiting  the  house,  where 
she  would  often  pass  entire  days,  sometimes  sitting 
in  an  adjoining  room,  and  listening  to  his  footsteps, 
or  wandering  to  and  fro,  and  hanging  with  fond- 
ness over  every  spot  and  object  with  which  she 
could  associate  his  slightest  word  or  look.  Oh, 
woman,  when  thy  heart  is  pure,  and  thy  love  true, 
what  is  there  in  nature  to  match  thee !  Though 
he  whom  thou  lovest  become  maimed,  wasted  by 
disease,  or  blanked  by  madness,  yet  wilt  thou  cling 
to  him,  and  see  in  the  ruin  only  that  image  which 
he  first  left  in  thy  heart. 

It  was  after  one  of  the  longest  of  these  parox- 
ysms, that  Monaldi  was  one  day  seen  to  go  into 
his  painting-room.  This  unusual  circumstance 
was  immediately  caught  at  as  a  symptom  of  re- 
turning reason ;  and  the  hopes  of  his  friends  were 
raised  on  finding,  a  few  days  after,  that  he  was  at 
work  on  a  picture.  But  his  impenetrable  silence, 
and  the  deep  gloom  which  still  hung  about  him, 
soon  shewed,  that,  if  he  had  recovered  at  all,  it 
was  only  in  part ;  for  though  his  look  was  no  longer 
vacant,  nor  his  actions  without  purpose,  he  yet 
moved  and  looked  as  if  he  noticed  nothing.  What 
he  was  employed  on  no  one  knew,  for,  without 


244  MONALDI. 

speaking,  he  once  discovered  so  much  distress  at 
the  intrusion  of  a  servant,  that  no  one  after  dared 
enter  his  room.  In  this  mood  did  Monaldi  pass 
month  after  month,  regularly  shut  up,  and  occu- 
pied as  if  in  his  perfect  senses.  At  length,  after 
a  fit  of  weeping,  that  seemed  to  fill  the  whole 
house  with  wailing,  he  one  day  came  out  of  his 
room,  and  desired  that  his  father-in-law  might  be 
sent  for.  Though  the  order  was  rational,  there 
was  still  something  so  frightful  in  his  expression, 
that  the  servants  at  first  all  drew  back ;  nor  was  it 
till  they  recollected  its  coherence  that  any  one  pre- 
pared to  obey  him. 

With  a  beating  heart,  and  eyes  lighted  up  with 
hope,  Landi  instantly  followed  the  messenger. 
Monaldi  met  him  at  the  door. 

"  You  know  me  then  ?  "  said  the  Advocate. 

Monaldi  spoke  not  a  word,  but  led  him  in  si- 
lence to  his  painting-room. 

He  watched  Landi's  countenance.  "  You  feel 
it?"  said  he,  "though  only  a  picture  —  /have 
known  the  original.  What  is  there,  I  have  seen." 
As  he  said  this,  his  lips  quivered  and  his  knees 
smote  each  other. 

Monaldi's  insanity  could  no  longer  be  doubted, 
and  Landi  turned  from  the  picture  with  a  hopeless 
sigh. 


MONALDI.  245 

"  Nay,  speak  not,"  said  Monaldi,  thinking  he 
was  about  to  reply :  "  my  time  is  measured ;  fo 
my  work  on  earth  is  done  —  and  I  must  burthen 
it  no  longer.  Landi  —  thou  art  reputed  wise. 
Yes,  amongst  the  living  thou  art  so.  But  what  is 
thy  wisdom  with  the  dead  ?  Folly !  Your  earthly 
philosophy  teaches  that  the  Prince  of  evil  is 
hideous.  And  you  think  to  serve  the  world  by  it. 
Miserable  folly !  Men  flee  from  what  is  frightful. 
So  would  they  from  sin,  did  it  take  the  shape  you 
have  given  it.  But  I — I  have  seen  it,  face  to 
face  —  enthroned  in  the  majesty  of  hell.  Look  ! 
That  is  the  form  in  which  he  whom  men  call 
Satan  appears  to  the  living.  Ay,  'tis  with  that 
deadly  beauty  he  wins  your  souls.  But  the  evil 
mind,  which  you  now  see  mixed  with  it,  transpires 
not  on  earth,  when  he  tempts  you  ;  't  is  only  in 
hell  that  his  victims  behold,  and  hate  it  —  when 
too  late.  Look  to  it  then,  you  of  earth  —  you,  to 
whom  I  leave  this  warning  —  look  to  it." 

The  wild  mixture  of  reason  and  madness  in 
this  speech,  and  the  extraordinary  work  before 
him,  so  confounded  Landi  that  it  was  several 
minutes  before  he  became  sufficiently  collected 
to  perceive  that  Monaldi  had  disappeared.  His 
last  words  then  occurred  to  him,  and  though  ob- 
scure, he  yet  understood  enough  to  be  alarmed, 


y 

246  MONALDI. 

and  set  off  immediately  in  search  of  him.  But  in 
vain. 

From  that  day  nothing  was  heard  of  Monaldi 
till  more  than  a  year  after  ;  when,  he  was  accident- 
ally discovered  at  the  cottage  of  a  lone  woman 
among  the  mountains  of  Abruzzo ;  but  as  neither 
menace  nor  entreaty  could  prevail  on  him  to  return 
home,  his  friends  were  compelled  to  humor  him,  and 
to  content  themselves  with  making  his  situation  as 
comfortable  as  the  nature  of  his  abode  admitted. 

Of  Rosalia  [continues  the  manuscript]  little 
more  need  be  said.  Her  affliction  is  still  un- 
abated ;  for  time,  which  wears  away  all  grief  for 
the  dead,  has  no  power  with  her  who  is  at  once 
both  wife  and  widow.  Monaldi  is  never  out  of 
her  thoughts ;  and,  her  only  consolation  being  that 
of  feeling  herself  near  him,  she  has  become  a 
boarder  at  a  convent  in  his  neighborhood. 

Maldura's  fate  may  be  told  in  a  few  words. 
He  became  a  brother  of  this  convent  soon  after 
his  last  interview  with  Monaldi,  and  died  about 
two  years  ago  ;  if  not  lamented,  at  least  pitied  for 
his  sufferings,  and  respected  for  his  penitence.  It 
was  at  his  instance  that  the  picture  just  mention- 
ed was  procured  for  the  convent.  He  wished  to 
have  it  near  him,  he  said,  that  he  might  never  for- 
,jget  what  a  mind  he  had  blasted. 


MONALD1.  247 

So  died  Maldiira ;  from  whose  miserable  life1 
may  be  learned  this  useful  lesson ;  that  without 
virtue,  the  love  of  praise  is  a  curse ;  that  distinc- 
tion is  the  consequence  —  not  the  object,  of  a 
great  mind  ;  that  it  cannot  be  made  so  without 
the  desire  of  supplanting ;  and  that  envy,  jealousy, 
or  any  similar  feeling  —  whatever  the  pursuit  — 
may  always  be  regarded  by  those  who  have  them, 
as  sure  warnings  that  the  true  love  of  excellence 
is  not  in  them  —  without  which  nothing  great  and 
permanent  ever  was  produced. 

The  career  of  his  accomplice  was  sooner  ended, 
and,  if  less  painful,  it  was  still  less  enviable  ;  for, 
though  Fialto  had  always  laid  the  unction  of  minor 
villany  to  his  soul  when  he  compared  himself  with 
Maldura,  he  was,  for  many  reasons,  of  a  character 
more  hopeless.  If  ambition  hardens  the  heart, 
sensuality  kills  it.  The  natural  and  social  feelings 
of  the  ambitious  man,  nay,  also  the  conscience, 
may  all  indeed  be  lost  in  selfish  insulation  ;  yet 
there  are  causes  which  sometimes  revive  them  — 
such  as  time,  disappointment,  or  even  the  attain- 
ment of  his  object  —  whether  it  be  power  or  re- 
venge ;  when  they  often  react,  as  in  Maldura's 
case,  by  repentance.  But  there  is  little  hope  of 
these  in  the  course  of  the  libertine  ;  to  whom 
failure  supplies  excitement,  and  success  adds 


248  MONALDI. 

habit,  which  time  only  confirms  ;  and  it  must  be 
so  ;  for  it  being  the  nature  of  his  vices  to  identify 
the  affections  with  the  senses,  the  whole  heart 
becomes  animal,  thence  a  pander  to  the  body,  till 
its  baser  functions  are  wasted  ;  nor  stopping  even 
then,  but,  in  the  restlessness  of  habit  sending  at 
last  its  prurient  desires  to  the  brain,  and  mocking 
the  wretched  remnant  of  the  man  to  the  very 
grave.  The  old  age  of  a  confirmed  libertine  is 
therefore  seldom  better  than  a  loathsome  phantas- 
magoria of  a  vicious  youth.  The  Count  Fialto 
was  saved  at  least  this  second  childhood  of  sin. 
He  had  embarked  soon  after  quitting  Rome,  with 
the  poor  Nun,  and  his  ill-got  wealth,  on  board  a 
small  vessel  bound  for  Marseilles.  The  vessel  was 
never  more  heard  of ;  but  the  bodies  of  the  Count 
and  his  companion  were  found  by  some  fishermen, 
washed  up,  about  three  weeks  after,  on  the  island 
of  Gorgona. 

THE    END    OF    THE    MANUSCRIPT. 


CONCLUSION,  BY  THE  TRAVELLER. 

HAVING  been  pressed  by  my  friendly  host  to  pro- 
long my  visit  at  the  convent,  it  was  only  two  days 
after  I  had  finished  reading  the  manuscript,  and 
whilst  I  was  still  musing  on  its  melancholy  con- 
tents, that  the  prior  entered  my  apartment. 

"  I  have  come,"  said  he,  "  to  make  known  to 
you  one  of  those  remarkable  coincidences  which 
the  inexperienced  are  apt  to  imagine  confined 
to  romances,  but  which  I  have  lived  long  enough 
to  know  are  more  common  to  real  life.  You  have 
just  read  the  imperfect  story  of  my  poor  friend  in 
time  to  be  a  witness  to  its  closing  scene.  He  is 
now  dying." 

"  Dying ! " 

"  So  it  is  supposed  ;  for  his  senses  are  returned  ; 
and  I  have  just  been  sent  for  to  administer  the 
last  rites  of  the  church." 

"  After  what  you  have  said,"  I  replied,  "  I  sup- 
pose I  may  be  allowed  to  attend  you." 

"  Not  as  a  stranger,"  returned  the  good  priest ; 
"  but  you  have  shewn  that  you  have  a  better  title. 


250  MONALDI. 

A  tear  shed  in  sympathy  makes  men  brethren  who 
have  never  before  met ;  't  is  a  touching  evidence 
of  our  common  descent." 

My  heart  was  too  full  from  what  I  had  been 
reading  to  continue  the  discourse,  and  I  followed 
the  prior  in  silence. 

As  we  entered  the  cottage,  we  were  met  by  the 
old  woman,  who  desired  us  to  wait  a  moment  till 
she  had  acquainted  the  lady  with  our  arrival. 

It  seemed  strange  that  a  mere  narrative  should 
attach  us  so  deeply  to  one  we  never  saw  ;  but  so 
it  was  ;  the  thought  of  meeting  Rosalia  made  my 
heart  beat  as  if  I  had  known  her  for  years,  and  I 
felt  I  know  not  what ;  perhaps  it  was  most  like  the 
feeling  we  have  for  a  beloved  sister  —  the  purest, 
and  most  delicate  sentiment  of  which  our  nature 
is  capable. 

After  a  few  minutes  Rosalia  came  out,  and, 
taking  the  good  priest  by  the  hand,  led  him  to 
the  sick  man's  chamber.  On  their  way  he  in- 
quired the  state  of  her  husband.  She  did  not 
speak,  but,  lifting  her  eyes  upward,  answered  by  a 
look  which  said  more  than  any  words  could  have 
told.  I  could  wish  always  to  remember  that  look  : 
it  was  not  one  of  grief,  nor  even  of  melancholy  ; 
it  was  all  rapture  —  yet  so  solemn  that  it  filled  me 
with  awe ;  seeming  to  announce,  while  she  pro- 


MONALDI.  251 

phetically  saw,  the  approaching  beatification  of 
him  she  loved. 

"  Thou  art  worthy,"  thought  I,  "  to  have  been 
loved  to  madness.  There  is  no  self  in  that  look  ; 
't  is  all  Monaldi's,  for  thy  soul  is  too  rapt  with  the 
thought  of  what  awaits  him  to  be  conscious  even 
of  thy  own  privation." 

The  religious  rites  being  over,  the  Prior  re- 
turned to  conduct  me  to  the  chamber.  At  first 
I  hesitated,  for  I  began  to  doubt  if  my  presence 
might  not  be  an  intrusion. 

"  Not  so,"  said  the  kind  old  man  ;  "  as  my 
friend  you  cannot  intrude.  Besides  your  interest 
in  the  poor  sufferer  is  already  known  to  his  wife  ; 
and  for  him  —  he  is  now  in  a  state  reckless  of  all 
human  forms.  I  would  have  you  see  him;  for 
the  death  of  a  Christian  —  the  death  in  hope  — 
has  no  parallel  in  sublimity  on  our  earth." 

As  we  entered  the  chamber  Rosalia  was  kneel- 
ing beside  her  husband,  her  head  resting  on  his 
bosom.  She  raised  her  head  at  our  approach,  but 
did  not  rise.  A  faint  smile  passed  over  the  face 
of  the  dying  man,  and  he  beckoned  the  prior  to 
the  other  side  of  the  bed  ;  then,  taking  a  hand  of 
each,  he  closed  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  and  seemed 
absorbed  in  prayer. 

"  I  have  been  praying,"  said  Monaldi,  when  he 


252  MONALDI. 

looked  up,  —  "I  have  been  praying  that  my  life 
might  not  pass  away  without  profit  to  those  I  leave 
behind  me ;  not  to  thee,  father,  for  thou  hast  long 
known  the  virtue  of  sorrow ;  nor  to  thee,  my 
beloved,  who  comest  now  to  partake  with  me  this 
triumph  of  affliction  ;  but  to  the  world  ;  that  they 
might  see  in  my  life  that  Supreme  Love,  which 
turneth  the  very  misery  from  our  misdeeds  into  a 
cleansing  fountain  ;  that  they  might  learn  from 
it,  that  affliction,  rightly  understood,  is  a  spiritual 
blessing." 

"  Thou  sayest  well,  my  son,"  said  the  Prior  ; 
"  for  the  sufferings  of  this  world  are  healthful 
medicine  to  the  soul  ;  even  the  holy  apostles 
tasted  it.  Let  those  who  grieve  then  remember 
the  words  of  Him  who  suffered  for  us  — '  blessed 
are  they  that  mourn,  for  they  shall  be  comforted.'  " 

Monaldi  continued,  "  Of  worldly  happiness  I 
have  had  my  portion  —  perhaps,  as  much  as  mor- 
tal could  bear  —  but  my  strength  fails."  Here  he 
stopped. 

I  now  looked  at  Rosalia ;  but  no  description 
can  give  a  picture  of  her  face  at  that  moment. 

After  a  few  moments,  the  husband  proceeded  ; 
"Rosalia," — she  pressed  his  hand  in  token  of 
her  attention.  "  Have  we  not  known  such  happi- 
ness ?  —  'T  is  nothing  to  that  we  shall  know  when 


MONALDI.  253 

we  meet  again.  You  will  not  grieve  then  for  the 
little  space  that  parts  us  —  even  now"  he  added, 
in  a  fainter  voice  ;  "  for  I  feel  that  my  hour  is 
come.  Yet  grieve  not  that  it  is  so  —  't  is  but  the 
beginning  of  peace,  which  passeth  all  under- 
standing. And  —  blessed  be  thy  name,  Parent  of 
good  !  for  now  know  I  that  thou  lovest  whom 
thou  chastenest." 

He  then  crossed  his  hands  upon  his  breast,  and, 
raising  his  eyes,  fixed  them  upward,  with  such  an 
expression  as  I  could  hardly  believe  belonged  to 
the  human  countenance. 

"  This  is  not  the  mere  crumbling  of  a  mortal 
body,"  thought  I  —  "  its  passage  to  dust  —  but  a 
revelation  —  touching  our  highest  instinct,  and 
giving  it  evidence  of  the  invisible  world ;"  for  it 
seemed  as  if  I  could  see  his  soul  raying  through 
his  eyes,  and  already  pass  into  it ;  holding  com- 
munion, even  by  those  bodily  organs,  with  the  just 
made  perfect.  I  was  so  overpowered  by  this  holy 
vision  (for  so  I  might  almost  call  it)  that  my  eyes 
involuntarily  fell  —  when  I  raised  them  again  he 
was  gone. 

THE    END. 


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